Текст книги "Hastrom City Rising (The Adventures of Letho Ferron Book 2)"

Автор книги: Doug Rickaway

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

They shouted in unified affirmative and went off to accomplish their objectives. A crowd of citizens had gathered to check out the spectacle now that the fighting was over.

“Hey, Letho!” Deacon shouted as he made his way through the open doorway, shouldering through the throng of workers and soldiers. “Hey, man, how come I keep missing out on the cool stuff? And what the hell are these things?” Deacon kicked at one of the bodies.

Letho shoved Deacon, knocking him to the floor. Deacon looked up at Letho, his eyes wide, confused.

“Show some respect, man,” was all Letho could manage before he turned to head back through the main entrance. He felt tears coming, and he didn’t want either Saul or Deacon to see them.

“What the hell?” he heard Deacon ask.

But he had nothing left to say to his old friend. He just needed to get away from people, to find a quiet place where he could figure things out.

****

The warm water poured down on Letho, caressing his skin and helping to ease the tension that wracked his body. He scrubbed his arms with a blocky chunk of lye soap; it felt like his skin was sloughing off in sheets, but he couldn’t seem to remove the black bloodstains. He blinked and shook his head, and when he looked back, his forearm was newborn pink, bordering on red and raw.

He had been trying to forget about his wounded arm. But it was there, always a hindrance, reminding him of its existence every time he opened a door or went to pick something up. Even dressing and undressing were nightmarish chores; his remaining hand was unable to perform basic tasks like fastening buttons without its counterpart.

Of course he tried to think of his wound as infrequently as possible, but he looked at it with even less frequency. The last time he had showered he had noticed that it was beginning to take shape, like a unborn baby’s arm extending from a full grown man’s bicep. He couldn’t believe it was happening. Regeneration. A miracle, sure enough. Even the doctors in the Fulcrum stations, who had the closest thing possible to cutting-edge medical equipment, had not been able to re-grow limbs. Not that many people ever had occasion to lose their limbs riding trains to their meaningless jobs, placing their cog teeth in the machine to keep it a-turnin’.

Oh, just look at it. Stop being such a child.

Letho opened his eyes and looked upon his arm. It had practically doubled in size since the last time he had dared examine it. He attempted to flex his elbow joint, but it felt as though the tendons and muscles were glued in place. He focused his mind and tried again. The elbow joint began to move, but not without significant pain. Gritting his teeth, he tried once more, and by repeating the process he was able to straighten out the half-formed arm. Now that it was extended, and the initial revulsion had worn off, he found himself able to look at it a little more closely. The hand was closed into a tight ball the size of a tangerine. He tried to unclench his tiny, angry fist, but the fingers wouldn’t even wiggle. His stomach lurched when he saw that his new forearm and the back of his hand were covered in a downy layer of green hair.

Oh my God. What’s happening to me?

He placed his hand on the shower wall and leaned forward, moving his head so that it was directly underneath the cascade of shower water. The water ran down his face in silver streamlets, hiding the fresh tears that poured from his eyes. His body convulsed with sobs, and he gasp-cried the heavy sobs of a man who has been holding them in for far too long.

His mind flashed back to the initial encounter with the Mendraga. The slain colonists. The death of the Tarsi Elder, who had died in his arms, his massive yet frail frame trembling. They had both died that day, only Letho had somehow managed to cheat death. Letho collapsed to the shower floor, the small tiles slipping in and out of focus as he continued to purge himself with pitiful sobs that caused his body to ache with each spasm.

****

He awoke some time later. The water had run cold, and his body was shivering under the relentless flow. He gathered himself and turned the water off. As he stepped out of the shower, he took care to not slip and fall. A grim chuckle attempted to burst from his sore throat.

You’re superhuman, and you’re afraid of slipping and falling in the shower.

He just didn’t have the heart to laugh even at his own jokes, which had once brought joy to even the darkest hours. When he faced the mirror, he saw that his raw eyes bulged, ringed in swollen red lids. He looked like he had gone a few rounds in a bare-knuckle boxing match with Maka.

He raked a hand through his hair, which had grown long. The thick shrubbery of a beard seemed to have doubled since he’d last looked in a mirror. Who was this man? Someone with the first hint of crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes, gaunt cheeks, and sunken eyes was masquerading as a young man he once knew, a chubby fellow who kept his face clean-shaven because he didn’t like it when crumbs from whatever he was eating got stuck in his facial hair.

He tapped the center of the mirror with his index finger, and it slid upward, revealing a complement of shaving goods and some over-the-counter pain meds that had long since expired. There was a small card on the top shelf:

Letho, if you want to get back in military reg, here’s a shaving kit. A gentleman should never be without one.

 

-Zedock (Dad)

 

Letho held the razor in his hand. The handle was made of a dark, rich ebony, and was emblazoned with a small gold placard that read “Gustav.” He opened the razor and marveled at the purity and smoothness of the metal. The spine was adorned with a tasteful hint of gold leaf. A rich gift indeed. Letho had no idea how to operate the straight razor—also quite appropriately called a cutthroat razor—so he decided to consult his uCom. He realized he hadn’t powered on the device since before they’d crash-landed on Eursus. To his delight the implant had survived both the crash and the subsequent run-ins with mutants. He looked up a tutorial and watched it carefully, attempting to absorb the information.

Satisfied that he had a rudimentary idea of what straight-razor shaving was all about, he whipped up a lather upon the soapstone with his badgerite brush. Then he applied the lather to his face with the brush, marveling in the sensation and inhaling the earthen scent of the soap. He began his first stroke and sucked air through his teeth as he opened a small nick just above his chin. A small pin-drop of blood had just enough time to well up before the wound healed.

“Let’s try this again.”

****

Letho threw on a fresh pair of coveralls. The ones he had worn on the raid were a lost cause; he had deposited them and everything else he had been wearing down the disposal chute. He tied his hair back with a leather tie and stepped out into the hallway.

He stood outside Saul’s dormitory, about to hail him via commlink when he heard the deep murmur of voices inside. Letho felt a momentary pang of guilt; was he eavesdropping? Should he just turn around and head back to his bunk? What if Saul happened to open the door just as he was turning to walk away? He stood frozen, unable to un-hear the voices emanating from Saul’s room. One voice was clearly Saul’s; the other was an deep one, its rich boom having no trouble penetrating the uninsulated cinderblock walls of the dormitory room. Still, the exact words being spoken were indiscernible, much to Letho’s simultaneous relief and disappointment.

At last Letho decided to press the hail button on Saul’s doorway keypad. There were a few more murmured words, then silence.

“Who is it?” Saul’s own rich voice rattled the cheap, tattered speaker inside the intercom.

“Uh, it’s me, Letho.” There was a interminable pause; for some reason Letho’s heart was beating a heavy staccato in his chest.

“Come on in.”

There was a cloying sense of strangeness hanging about Saul’s room like dank swamp air. Letho attempted to act normal, but in doing so only increased his discomfort.

“Hey, bud, what can I do for you?” Saul said at last.

“Just wanted to say thanks for today,” Letho stammered. “I really needed it. Sorry if I was interrupting something.”

Saul locked his eyes on Letho’s, who shifted on his feet. “No, not all. I was just reviewing some footage from your Fulcrum station. That voice that you no doubt heard before you entered was our favorite Chief Station Inspector, Mr. Zedock Wartimer,” Saul said through a wry grin.

“Ah, cool. What did he have to say?”

“Not much. He was going on about policies regarding Tarsi slavery.”

“Sounds like him, ever the Tarsi advocate. Oh well, guess I’ll be going.”

“No, stay. Have a glass of whiskey with me. I need a little sauce to get over what happened today anyways. How about you? You doin’ all right?”

“More or less. A shower and shave does wonders for the soul.”

“Yes sir it does!” Saul said, standing to gather the accoutrements for a couple of glasses of whiskey.

“Hey, if it’s all the same, I think I’ll pass on the booze. I think I’m going to turn in early tonight.”

“Fair enough. Guess I’ll just have to drink your glass too. Listen, some new intel came in from my guy inside Hastrom City while we were gone. Meeting is at oh-eight-hundred. See you there?”

“You bet. See you tomorrow, Saul.”

NINE – Of Mice and Men

They met the next morning in the same conference room through which Zedock had led Letho the day before. Saul was already there, looking a little worse for wear, his eyes swollen and red, his head hanging low and one hand clapped to his forehead. He was having a heated discussion with a man Letho had seen around the compound. Johnny Zip, if Letho recalled correctly. The discussion appeared to be about the incident with the muties, and although Zip was arguing some point with passion, Saul looked like he just wanted to sit down and nurse his aching head.

And then Letho saw Deacon. His best friend, who had been in the grips of a detoxification that Letho himself had suffered and wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. But here the man stood, hale and hearty, a slightly downturned expression on his face.

Letho’s own horrid behavior came rushing back to him in a shameful vignette and he was instantly filled with remorse. He remained frozen, the cogs in his brain grinding against one another as he tried to figure out what his first move should be. Thankfully Deacon began to head toward him, a pleasant expression on his face, his hand extended, welcoming.

“Deacon, listen, I’m sorry for—” But Letho didn’t have time to finish his sentence before Deacon wrapped him in a warm hug.

“It’s okay, I understand,” Deacon began. “Saul filled me in. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

It was one of those rare embraces between two people where no one is bothered with the notion of hugging for too long. The embrace simply is, just as the length of a breath is not measured by time but by the fullness of the lungs. The two men released one another from the embrace, and at that moment Bayorn and Maka entered the meeting room, filling the small space with their imposing presence.

“Maka, Bayorn!” Letho exclaimed. He hadn’t seen a Tarsi in days, and it had weighed upon him; he hadn’t realized just how much until he actually saw his two favorite and all-around shining representatives of the race. Their scent filled his nostrils, and the musical sound of their voices, even when they spoke Eursan, filled his ears.

“Letho!” Maka said, rushing toward him and almost bowling him over in his embrace. He released Letho, who then turned and embraced Bayorn as well.

“Where have you two been? I haven’t seen you in days!”

“We have spent many days with the Tarsi that dwell here. They had many stories to tell, as did we. They wish to meet you, Letho. They want to know that you are real, and not some legend created from thin air,” Bayorn said.

“I want to meet them as well,” Letho replied. He tried to hide his emotions from Bayorn, but it was a futile gesture that the Tarsi saw right through.

“Letho, what is wrong?” Bayorn asked. “Where is Thresha?”

“She’s gone.” Letho’s brief response was a broad truth, but it told them nothing. The rest of the story was written in the furrow of his brow and the empty gaze he favored Bayorn with.

“She is dead?” Maka asked quietly.

“No. She’s gone,” Letho said, making a gesture with his hand of a starship taking flight. “It all happened so fast. One minute she was fighting by my side, the next she was in a scout ship, making for Hastrom City.”

“What do you mean? She just left us? Just like that?” Deacon said.

Maka snarled, pressing his fists together. “She has returned to her master, just as we thought she might. We warned you, Letho. A Mendraga can never be trusted.”

“Now just hold on a minute,” Letho shouted, whipping around to face Maka. “Maybe she’s getting inside to help us. Did you ever think of that?”

“She didn’t even say goodbye,” Deacon said. “I can’t believe it.” The others favored him with a glance and then went back to their argument.

“Let’s all calm down,” Zedock said, appearing as if from thin air. In his anger and frustration Letho hadn’t even noticed the man enter the room. “Now I tend to side with this feller Macro, what’s your name? Did I say that right? But regardless, it’s too early to know what her intentions are, and there’s nothing to be done about it at this point anyway. Maybe Letho’s right and she’s infiltrating Abraxas’s inner circle as we speak.”

“Don’t you think Abraxas would have considered this possibility?” Saul asked. “If we’re sitting here talking about it, we can bet that he probably already thought of it too. Besides, can’t they all read each other’s damn minds? Even if she was trying to help us they’d see right through it.”

“The Eursan is right,” Bayorn said. “Whose side she is on is irrelevant. Even if she were on some foolish quest for our benefit, Abraxas will see right through it. And when he discovers Letho’s feelings for her he will use them against him.”

It was if someone had punched Letho in the chest. He felt a hot flush rising to his cheeks. Violent adrenaline surges plowed through his veins like molten pig-iron. He reached up and wrapped his hands around Bayorn’s neck. Smoke began to billow from his nostrils, and his eyes flashed like mortar blasts.

But Letho hadn’t reached up and strangled his friend. Thankfully that had only transpired in his mind. Still, he had really wanted to, and oh, he was afraid of just how much he had desperately wanted to. When he returned to his senses he realized that they were all staring at him, waiting for him to respond.

“My feelings aren’t going to be a problem. You can count on that. Trust me. If she’s against us, I’ll kill her myself.”

“Well, all right then, if we’re all done talking about feelings, I’d like to call this here meeting to order,” said Saul. When he said like, it sounded more like lack. “Please, have a seat at my table.”

Letho cleared his throat and attempted to fight back the crimson flush rising in his cheeks. He was ashamed of how clearly they had all seen through him. He hadn’t been one hundred percent sure how he felt about Thresha, but apparently to everyone else it had been written across his forehead in halogen night-brights. And even though he knew that Bayorn was acting in his best interests, he found himself resenting how the old Tarsi had just humiliated him in front of everyone.

He took a seat to the right of Zedock, and Saul took the one on the older man’s left.

“So, I spoke with our man inside last night,” Saul began, “and it sounds like things are not all sparkly in Hastrom City. Lots of unrest. People ain’t happy.” He was speaking directly to Zedock, who seemed to be weighing Saul’s words carefully.

The old man cast a glance at Letho, and then to Deacon and the two Tarsi. “That may very well be the case,” he said. “But we still don’t have enough manpower to engage Abraxas directly. There would have to be something pretty damn big going down. I just don’t see it. Even if there was a full-on riot going on in the streets, Abraxas still has enough Mendraga to flatten us.”

“No one even knows for sure how big his army is,” Saul said. “And you know how information like that tends to get overblown. For all we know he could have just a hundred soldiers, and Letho and I just killed about five or ten on our own.”

“It’s funny, they have this terrible reputation, but they seem to be pretty easy to kill,” Deacon said.

“Well, a good rifle goes a long way in evening things up between a man and a Mendraga, but if you get enough of ’em in one place, it’s curtains,” Zedock said. “They’re just too fast. Not enough sets of eyes to lay crosshairs on them, if you follow me.”

“So have any of you actually been in Hastrom City?” Letho asked. “I’m sure your inside guy, as you call him, is a really swell guy, but is he the only source of intel we have?”

“None of us have ever been inside Hastrom City before,” Zedock said. “Getting this place up and running has been priority number one, and to be quite honest, none of us are exactly too keen on waltzing into the enemy’s capital city.”

“But Hastrom City is huge, and it’s safe to assume that hundreds of thousands of people from the Fulcrum stations, not to mention Tarsi, are living there. Couldn’t we just slip in there and have a look?” Letho asked.

“He’s right,” Saul said. “There are people coming in and out of there all the time. Heading to the colonies, going out to the outer reaches of the city to do repairs and scavenge. We could slip in with them, just like Letho said. There will probably be security checkpoints, so we can’t count on weapons, but we wouldn’t even need them—we’d just be some colonists coming in to buy some replacement parts. Perhaps with an escaped slave bear or two in tow. Pardon the nomenclature, fellas.”

Bayorn nodded and gestured with his hands. No offense taken.

“As far as Alastor knows, I’m dead. It’s not like he’d be looking for me,” Letho said.

“Unless Thresha has betrayed us,” Deacon interjected.

Letho made a dismissive flatulent sound with his mouth. “If Thresha has betrayed us we might as well just open up all the doors and start planning the welcome party for Abraxas and Alastor right now. She may not know the exact location of this place, but she can sure point them in the right direction.”

“It is a good plan,” Maka said. “If we could find the Tarsi and tell them that Letho Ferron lives, they would fight to the death for him. For us. Perhaps we could hide among them, restore them to the true Tarsi form…”

“I don’t know,” Zedock began. “It seems pretty risky. However, if the Mendraga girl has turned on us, it’s only a matter of time before they find this place. And it sure wouldn’t hurt to get a good look at what we’re up against. And of course, an army of pissed-off Tarsi would certainly be useful. Maybe it’s time to make a move after all.”

“Well then, what are we waiting for?” Letho said.

****

Letho awoke from a fitful sleep, his body drenched in sweat, his blanket sopping wet and torn halfway off the mattress by his tossing and turning. He pressed his hands to his face and rubbed his eyes, wiping the sweat from his brow.

A jolt of electricity ran through his body. Hands? He had felt two hands on his face. He reached out to a lamp on a nearby countertop and clicked it on.

And screamed at what he saw.

A fully grown arm had replaced the fetal thing that had previously hung from his forearm. But the new arm was notably larger than his other arm, and it was covered in thick green fur. The palm was massive and the fingers were large and knurled, each one tipped in a black claw. Without meaning to, Letho extended the claws an inch or two past his fingertips.

His mind raced. What would the others think? What did it mean?

The Gift. Am I becoming a Tarsi?

A knock on the door was like a shotgun blast in the empty morning air. Letho jumped, startled by the intrusion into his personal crisis.

“Letho, you up yet?” said a voice from the hallway. It was Deacon.

“Yeah, just a second, let me throw on some clothes,” Letho said. He shimmied his body into a fresh set of coveralls. Having access to a functioning hand, regardless of its appearance, at least proved useful.

My hand! Deacon! Think of something.

Letho grabbed a towel from the previous day’s shower and threw it over his forearm.

Ridiculous. I look like a waiter.

“Forget it,” he muttered to himself, throwing the towel to the floor and rushing to open the door.

“Hey, if I’m interrupting ‘Letho time’ I can come back—oh my God what happened to your hand?”

“I don’t know,” Letho moaned.

“It’s so big. And hairy!” Deacon said.

“Oh Deacon, you say the sweetest things,” Letho said. “Tell me something I don’t know!”

Zedock and Saul appeared, drawn by the commotion.

“Hey, everyone. Look at Letho’s arm,” Deacon said.

“Shut up!” Letho said, tucking his arm behind his back.

“What’s this? Let’s have a look, Letho,” Zedock said.

Letho made no move to produce his arm, holding his ground like a spoiled child.

“Oh, come on, son, I just want to have a look is all,” Zedock said.

Grudgingly, Letho placed his arm out in front of him so that Zedock could see it. He heard Saul gasp and mutter a stream of expletives.

Zedock inspected the furry green limb. “Well, what do we have here? Full regeneration, but some sort of mutation it seems? I don’t know.”

“Mutation?” Letho exclaimed. His thoughts turned to the gray things in the wastes.

“No, not like that. Something else. I’ve heard of babies showing up with strange deformations from time to time. A pointed tooth, a deformed hand—but nothing like this. This is a rather portent omen indeed. I don’t quite know what to make of this, son. If I were you I wouldn’t get any more body parts lopped off if you can avoid it.”

“Sir, if I might interject, I have some readings on your new growth,” Saladin said, utilizing the small but efficient loudspeakers built into his pommel. “Tissue sample reports from nanobots indicate rapid genetic recombination and alteration at the regeneration site.”

“Can you put that in terms that mortals can understand?” Deacon asked.

“Sure, associate Deacon Shipke, though I must indicate that, in a sense, I too am mortal. My betavoltaic cells have a life of roughly one thousand years. I—”

“Saladin, we’re in a bit of a time crunch. Can you get to the point?” Letho said.

“Sorry, sir. In short, anabolic tissue regeneration, or in simpler terms, the regrowth of your forearm, seems to have been initiated by the genetic agents that are responsible for your strength and ability to heal. The process of regeneration seems to have manifested changes in the very structure of your body.”

“Whoa, that’s heavy,” Deacon said. “Your sword is really cool.”

“So it is some sort of mutation,” Zedock said.

“Precisely,” Saladin answered.

“Yeah, but into what?” Saul said.

“Guys, I’m right here,” Letho said, for they spoke as if he weren’t even there.

“All right, well, I’m going to need some time to ponder this,” said Zedock. “What say we have Bayorn take a look at it before you all leave?”

“Us all? Who exactly are we speaking about here?” Letho said.

“Well, I’m in,” Saul said. “Figured that was a given.”

“And you can bet your ass I’m going,” Deacon said. “I missed out on the whole landing—er, crashing—and there was something about a school? Don’t remember anything about that.”

“Trust me, you didn’t miss much,” Letho said, flexing his new hand.

****

“There is no mention of this in our lore, at least none that I am aware of,” Bayorn said, holding Letho’s forearm gently in his hands. He looked closer, like a man examining a ring through a jeweler’s loupe, then let go, holding his own arm next to Letho’s and comparing them. He placed his hand, palm open, against Letho’s. Bayorn’s hand and arm were significantly larger and thicker, not to mention covered in a much denser layer of fur. But the resemblance was remarkable.

“So I have a Tarsi arm. Great. What’s next?” Letho asked.

“A Tarsi head would be an improvement over your current one, pink-skin,” Maka said.

“Very funny, Maka,” Letho said. They were standing in the small hangar that was home to Saul’s razorback and a few troop transport trucks like the one Letho had ridden in when he first came to Haven. The room had that pungent smell of petrol and metal, with just a hint of sawdust. It reminded Letho of the smell of the Fulcrum underneath, save for the absence of Tarsi scent. How he longed for that time, when his greatest worry had been whether or not Maka was going to allow him to live through the day’s work.

Letho heard the sunny baritone of Deacon’s voice as he engaged Saul in a conversation about something mechanical. The two seemed to genuinely like one another. Letho mused on how he had despised Saul for his grandstanding and rough handling of his subordinates. At the very least they were brothers in arms, united in their opposition to Abraxas and Alastor. And at best, they were actual brothers, bonded by their love for the same father.

The expedition would be just Letho, Deacon, Saul, and Bayorn. Maka had pleaded Bayorn to let him go as well, but Bayorn, betraying shades of the great leader he was becoming, had convinced Maka to remain behind and watch over their new Kinsha.

“Well, we ain’t getting any younger,” Saul said. “She’s all ready to go. What say we hit the road?”

“I’m ready if you guys are,” Letho said.

“Well, y’all be careful. We’ll hold down the fort for ya. Don’t go and do somethin’ foolish like get yourself killed,” Zedock said, playing his swaggering, gunslinging sheriff routine to pitch perfection. He patted both Letho and Saul on the back, then pulled them in for an awkward but welcome embrace.

“You will watch over him,” Maka asked, watching the three Eursans fumble to disentangle themselves from one another’s embrace.

“As though he were my own,” Bayorn said.

“Are you sure you do not need me? If anything were to happen to you or Letho, I don’t know what—”

“You’d take your place as the new Elder, and lead the Tarsi into battle to avenge us,” Bayorn interrupted, placing his hand on Maka’s chest. “You are strong here,” he added, his hand resting over Maka’s heart. “But I must be the one to go and see. So that I can come back and tell. For that is my gift.”

Letho watched the exchange, and it triggered a memory of a similar scene long ago, when the two Tarsi had stood in a very similar pose, discussing the fate of a frightened young man who had come to them under harrowing circumstances. They had stood on the precipice of a great change, a fulcrum shift that was about to swing loose and alter the courses of their shared destinies. Letho felt those same tectonic plates trembling under his feet now, and wondered what else fate had in store for him. What more could it take from him?

The answer was in front of him. It was in the way Deacon smiled at him, a lopsided smile that was at once disarming and full of infinite loyalty. It was in the way Maka struggled with the fact that for the first time since he and Letho had met, he would not be there to protect him.

But to do nothing would not stay the course of destiny, for like a river, it was unstoppable. Letho and his friends were just stones scraping across the bottom, unable to resist that unassailable flow. If enough stones were to gather, perhaps the path of the water might be altered, maybe even stopped, but only for a time. In the end it would always flow forward, taking the stones where it might, changing them along the way. Smoothing off the rough edges of some while burying others.

The only way Letho could protect those he loved was to wade forward into the river, and in doing so, place himself and those he cared for at great risk. It was a tragic irony, and there were no guarantees. But there were also no alternatives. Even if they decided to stay, to remain hidden from Abraxas, to live out their lives in Haven, Letho knew they would ultimately be discovered. And then, the last bastion of resistance to Abraxas would fall. That was not a life that he could live, Letho decided, and he took comfort in the notion that his friends probably felt the same.

He went to Maka, who was trying not to cry, but was doing a rather terrible, slobbery job of it. The Tarsi wrapped his arms around Letho, smothering him as he always did, and Letho took a deep breath, absorbing the scent of his friend, hoping that it would not be the last time he would do so, but memorizing the moment just in case.

“Hey, buddy, don’t cry,” Letho said, wiping a tear from Maka’s cheek. “We’re just going to do a little sightseeing. We’ll be back before you know it.”

“I know,” Maka sobbed. “Be careful, and return safely.”

“I will. Promise.” It was a promise often made, and not kept often enough. But Letho intended to keep it.

****

The sun had just fallen below the horizon as they made their way out of the tunnel network. Letho felt his stomach churn as they sped past the bloated corpses of dispatched mutants. No scavengers, save for the microbial ones that even now liquefied the remains, had disturbed them. He wondered if his own body would soon be rotting somewhere too.

As they traversed the ruined landscape, Letho saw a planet dying of thirst. The earth was a parched, baked-clay red, shot through with fissures, some as small as a finger-width, others large enough to drive the razorback into and fall for a very long time.

Saul maneuvered the razorback between the rusting automobiles as they made their way up the ancient highway. The way was more or less clear, as though someone had cleared a path at some point, shoving the rusted, wheeled husks aside with some great contraption made of steel and powered by burning petrol. Still, on a few occasions Saul was forced to take the razorback off the asphalt and into the parched dirt and sparse, desiccated vegetation, which proved to be no problem for the vehicle as it seemed equally at home on both terrains.

As they drew closer to Hastrom City, the sky began to lighten. Letho could see the city’s jagged skyline stabbing the atmosphere above, the twinkle of its lights clear in the distance. The landscape transformed before his very eyes as they drew closer to the city. Long-abandoned fuel stations with broken windows and collapsing shelves sprang up every mile or two. Abandoned shopping centers came next, colorful signs proclaiming low prices and convenient services. Letho recognized some of the fast food restaurants from the videodocs and data logs that he had once pored over like an anthropologist.