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

Автор книги: Doug Rickaway

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Letho felt his heart grow heavy as the razorback entered the suburban sprawl that surrounded Hastrom City like a thicket of vines. Part of him hoped that Alastor had succeeded in bringing some life back to the land, that there would be something to come back to if, by some slim chance, they won. The homes here had suffered a worse fate than others he had seen. Some of them were burnt-out husks, as if someone had poured molten lead onto whole blocks from a great cauldron. As they slowed, Letho saw a flutter of shadows inside an intact dwelling nearby. Saul placed a finger on his lips and pointed to the moving shadows that lurked just beyond what they could see.

Muties? Letho mouthed. Saul nodded. Letho reached for the handle of his .50 caliber, then remembered that it was back at Haven, waiting for him along with Saladin, under Zedock’s watchful eye.

The razorback lumbered down the shattered street, weaving and bobbing around abandoned vehicles and what looked like impact craters. Letho imagined listless black eyes peering at him from deformed sockets, misplaced on their melted face. He actually found it quite unsettling that the creatures did not attack. His mind began to race, concocting ever more frightful imagery as they continued their slow crawl. He was certain that at any moment a swarm of mutants would come rushing out of the broken domiciles to bury the razorback under a stinking pile of writhing, clawing bodies.

The suburban sprawl continued as far as Letho could see, but it was beginning to give way to empty expanse as the road they were on connected to a great highway. The overpass had long since collapsed under its own weight and the incessant pull of gravity. In the distance, Letho could just make out the the great steel and stone walls of Hastrom City.

Saul checked the rearview mirror and gave everyone a thumbs-up.

“Okay, looks like we’re in the clear for now. Damn muties, I thought we were done for before we even got started,” Saul said. “We go on foot from here. Grab your waterskins, and for Je-Ha’s sake, Letho, cover up that damn arm. How the hell are we going to explain that?”

“All right already, calm down, Mr. Yelling Guy,” Letho said. He retrieved a roll of gauze from the razorback and began wrapping his arm.

Here, put these on over your clothes,” Saul said, tossing each Eursan a rough-spun hooded cloak. Letho caught his in midair and whipped it from its folded state with a flourish. The cloaks were dusty and smelled of mildew and someone else’s sweat.

“Aw, man, it’s going to be so hot in these things,” Letho mused.

“Well, when that sun gets up and starts baking us, you’ll be thankful for the skin cover,” Saul said. “Besides, we want to be inconspicuous, remember? These are pretty standard gear for scavengers. We’ll blend right in.”

Letho hoped he was right.

“All right, big fella, I know you’re not going to like this, but we’re going to have to cuff you,” Saul said, approaching Bayorn with slight caution, a set of massive cuffs held out in front of him like some sort of bizarre peace offering.

“Saul, why do you even have those?” Deacon asked.

“You find some pretty weird stuff when you’re scavenging, boys. That’s all I’m going to say.” He opened the clasp, andBayorn begrudgingly held out his arms. Saul clapped the shackles on them. “There, not so bad, right?”

“You’re not the one wearing them,” Bayorn rumbled. He was clearly offended by this part of their ruse, but what could they do? How else could they explain the presence of a Tarsi among them?

“Okay, so here’s the story,” Saul said. “We’re scavengers, and we found this slave bear. We’re returning him, looking for a bounty.”

Bayorn’s hackles rippled at the sound of the word slave.

“Very well,” Bayorn said, “but if you call me a slave bear again, I’ll eat you.”

“Fair enough,” Saul replied. “Gentlemen, let’s go. Hastrom City awaits!”

TEN – Hastrom City

Thresha sat in opulence, the fruits of citizen sweat and labor on full display in Abraxas’s temple. The floors were covered in obsidian marble tiles that glinted in the morning sun. The tiles matched the room’s many pillars, which cast long shadows like prison bars across her body. There were statues of cherubim covered in gold leafing, and others of Mendraga warriors, their posture supplicant to the statue of Abraxas, which was the largest and quite stately. Abraxas’s arms were outstretched, palms open and facing the ceiling, and a magnanimous expression was spread across the face, as if it were ever willing to hear one’s most trivial complaint and do everything in its power to reconcile this worry. Under the statue’s booted foot, a horrid caricature of a Tarsi, with massive teeth and large menacing eyes, lay crushed, defeated.

Thresha’s garb was of the finest silk, encrusted with stones that sparkled and shimmered. She sat upon a gilded chaise lounge on a balcony that overlooked the throne room, and gazed down at Abraxas, resplendent in his might and cruelty. Abraxas, the god-king, the child of the sun itself, who had come to Hastrom City in a ball of fire to return it the city its former glory and restore both the Eursan and Mendraga races to their ultimate glory. He sat on a gilded throne atop a large flight of stairs that began mere feet from the entrance to his palace. He wore a long flowing robe, and a gold and silver headpiece that hid his true visage under the guise of a noble Tarsi. Thresha knew of the corrupted face that lay just beneath the mask—which was why Abraxas never appeared in public without it. She wondered what the good people of Hastrom City would think if they saw what he really was: a Tarsi that had corrupted his own body through his meddling with his very genetic code. The fountain of youth that he had so desperately sought had overturned and drowned him, leaving behind a malformed creature that could, theoretically, live for all eternity, but at the cost of his once beautiful appearance—as well as the sentimental trappings of mortality such as empathy and kindness. Such things mattered not to a being whose consciousness stretched back countless millennia, who could take what he wanted without fear of repercussion or reprimand.

Thresha knew this because of the growth of her own Mendraga gifts. She could occasionally see into both Abraxas’s and Alastor’s minds, and she wondered if they were conscious of it. She shuddered to think what they had gleaned from her own mind. Had she already betrayed those in Haven without actually meaning to?

Gifts. That’s what Alastor had always called them. If she had known the abominable price of these ‘gifts’ when she had first been turned, she would have rejected them wholeheartedly. She thought of a fleeting image she had seen in Letho’s mind when he had come to visit her. It was almost as if he had sensed her presence in his mind and snatched it away at the last minute in attempt to protect her from the horror of it. But she had seen it, though Letho’s mind had gobbled it up like someone swallowing a key so that it might not be used to open something, perhaps a gateway holding back a horrible thing.

And that’s what the vision had been, a horrible thing, a vision of a child, that had died and mummified itself inside her, the great price that she paid for her service to Abraxas and Alastor. She didn’t know how Letho saw it, how he knew it was there, but it did not matter. She herself had known on some level that a child had been there just before her fateful choice; Letho had just confirmed it. She thought of her former self, a stupid young woman in love with a beautiful young man, and how she had given herself to him, and though it wasn’t supposed to happen, she missed a moon’s bleeding or two. And oh, how she had trembled with mingled excitement and terror. And then Alastor had come, and everything had changed.

She hadn’t thought of the child when she had made her choice to serve alongside Mavus and his twin brother Cantus instead of becoming a member of the cattle on which Alastor and his minions had fed. Now she could see it clearly, she had sacrificed the baby that Mavus and she had created, thinking only of herself and how she didn’t want to die as a food source for some other being. She knew what a hideous creature she had become because even in this moment of realization she felt very little, if anything at all. Her insides wanted to ache with longing and regret, and her eyes wanted to shed tears, but they simply would not.

Yes, it was better to die than to live as a decent person trapped in the body of a monster. A monster who, like the father of all monsters who now sat below her, could live forever. She had thought about ending it all before, but when it came down to it, the notion of ending one’s existence in the calm water of oblivion had been too much. She just couldn’t do it.

And then Letho came along. The man who had saved her. She had been ready that day—the day when her sweet one, Mavus, had died for a second and final time. She had chosen life as a cursed Mendraga primarily because he had; he had chosen the path of Alastor’s gift instead of death, and she had followed. So when Jim killed Mavus, she had flown upon him like a raptor composed entirely of hatred and vengeance, and when she had poured out this abject hatred and ended Jim’s existence, there had been nothing left.

Letho had taken her action as a sign of humanity, and had latched on to her because of it. She had been ready for the conflagration, but this strange Eursan had pulled her from it. She couldn’t decide if she loved him or despised him for it. And then there was the other one, the funny one with the smile that melted her, made her feel traces of emotion that she hadn’t savored in a century at least.

Deacon. She saw his face in her mind, heard his voice, and prayed that she had made the right choice.

Such thoughts were dangerous. She saw Abraxas’s consciousness like a great shadow that stalked across the field of his subjects’ minds, discerning their true desires. She hoped that she wasn’t as transparent as those who sometimes came before him to ask for his judgment on their trivial concerns. Even she could see into their minds sometimes, and this brought her great pain from time to time, for sometimes she could see that a citizen’s motives was pure—yet Abraxas still ruled against them. Was it out of some hatred of Eursans? Or was it just a bored mind seeking entertainment?

Alastor appeared out of nowhere, placing a hand on her silken shoulder.

“How are you, my child?” he purred.

Ah, Alastor, the hand of Abraxas. Even under his thick beard and massive mane of obsidian braids, she could see that he had once been a strikingly handsome man, with a noble brow, high cheekbones, and expressive eyes. She placed her hand on his own, trying with every cell of her being not to recoil from his touch. It was not the touch of a father to a child. it was something else; something repulsive. She cleared her mind, fearful that he was rummaging through it.

“Fine, thank you. Much better now that I have eaten,” she said. She looked down at the maiden who lay across a couch nearby, her chest rising and falling slowly in a way that Thresha’s never would again. She had drained the young girl almost completely, but had held back at the last, even though her thirst had driven her mad with desire to drink until the the human was dead. She had consumed many since she had come back into Alastor’s company, for there was no end to the line of those eager to gain favor with the god-king, offering their own sons and daughters like dowries in an unholy union.

“It is a shame that those stinking Eursans treated you so,” Alastor said, stroking her cheek. “Though I still wonder why you didn’t just free yourself from them sooner. Surely even the strongest Tarsi is no match for my little warrior princess.”

Oh how she hated it when Alastor spoke to her as though she were his daughter, or worse, an of object of his desire.

The massive front doors of the palace began to grind open, and one of Abraxas’s servants, a Eursan who had not yet been deemed worthy of receiving the gift, came scampering up the aisle to the daunting stairs that led to his great leader. He kneeled at the bottom of the stairs, his eyes cast down, not daring to look up from the floor.

“Master, Representative Ankor Watt from the Corpus Verum wishes to speak to you,” the servant said.

“Oh, this will be entertaining. It’s always a pleasure to hear from the sleepers,” Alastor remarked, laughing coldly as they both watched from the balcony.

“Very well, please show her in,” Abraxas said. The servant bowed even lower, then shot up into a standing position and ran toward the front entrance.

A few moments later, seven of the labor sector workers, known colloquially as hammerheads, trudged through the doorway. One stood out front, perhaps their representative, while behind him the remaining six struggled forward in two lines of three men each, carrying a massive platform, a relic of pre-exodus Eursan technology. Thresha marveled at their broad shoulders, easily as far across as two normal men standing shoulder to shoulder, and the flatness of their brows, which seemed to hang over their eyes like shutters. How could they see under such pronounced brows?

These beings were not normal—or so she had gleaned from the minds of her masters. They had been created using special genetic protocols to harden them against the changing climate and enhance their physique while at the same time dimming their minds. They were bred as a servant class, meant to maintain the machines that kept the Corpus Verum and their many associates alive and well while they slept in their computerized sarcophagi. And no one had rioted, it seemed, at this massive breach in ethics. Everyone had been too busy securing their ticket to ride a Fulcrum station to care about the caste system the Corpus Verum was setting up.

The hammerheads lumbered to a stop, and Thresha could see the sweat glistening on their bristly arms. She found herself wondering what they might taste like. How quickly she had lapsed back into old behaviors since returning to Alastor and Abraxas! During her time with Letho she had truly felt that she had rekindled a bit of her former self, an optimistic and kind woman who had a taste for good food and nineteenth-century Arandos paintings. How much of her former self remained dormant inside, and how much had been ruined by Alastor and his gifts?

The sound of the hammerheads dropping their platform to the floor clanged around in the vaulted ceilings of Abraxas’s hall. The hammerheads groaned, rubbing their boulder-like biceps. They seemed to pay Abraxas no mind, and Thresha wondered if they could even perceive the nature of his status. Perhaps, like cattle, they knew only the feedbag and the whip.

But the the hammerhead who had been in front of the procession seemed different. Thresha could see that he wasn’t quite as short and anvil-shaped as his cohorts, nor were his features quite as simian as theirs. His movement had some grace to it, and the effect was quite jarring, like seeing a quadrupedal animal walking on two feet. He turned and bowed to Abraxas while his brethren snorted and flatulated behind him. The dichotomy between the low-behaving hammerheads and this bright one was fascinating to Thresha, and she watched his every move with great care. Who was this man? That is, if he could even be called a “man,” considering his genetic pedigree.

Having shown obeisance, the bright hammerhead turned to the platform and began to press buttons on a keypad. The thing began to whir like a vacuum as it spun to life, and the readout began to emit light in colors ranging from blue to magenta. A circular pad in the center of the platform began to glow, and a set of projector eyes slid up around the lighted circular pad and began to shine.

At last a three-dimensional hologram of a beautiful woman with shiny black hair and chocolate skin appeared. The photon woman made no gesture of supplication toward Abraxas—a bold choice, Thresha thought. She stood resolute, her arms at her side, hands balled into fists.

“Representative Watt, what can I do for you?” Abraxas said, his voice oily and full of thinly veiled detest. The effect was not lost on Ankor Watt, whose digital representation smirked back at Abraxas.

“Greetings to you, Lord Abraxas. Or is it ‘Great Father Abraxas’? I have heard that some of the citizens have begun calling you that.”

“What control do I have over what the citizens call me? If they see me as their father, I welcome it. After all, I have brought them to their home, and given them peace and safety. Something your failed society could not do, I might remind you.”

Before Thresha had returned to Alastor’s company equipped with her burgeoning new gift, she had never heard of either the hammerheads or the Corpus Verum, who were known as “the sleepers” by the citizens of Hastrom City. It wasn’t something that was taught in the formal ed history classes, which typically culminated with the glorious claiming of the Fulcrum stations in the name of Arandos, and the subsequent great mission to discover new planets to colonize.

“I would remind you that our situation was very dire, with the very fate of our race hanging in the balance. We made our choices, and we stand by them,” Ankor said.

“Yes, sending the fools on a meaningless mission into space while the rich, famous, and politically connected stayed on Eursus in simulated majesty, all courtesy of the unbreakable backs of designer peasants,” Abraxas said, gesturing toward the hammerheads below him, who even now seemed completely unaware of his presence. The smart one mingled among them, patting them on the shoulders and offering them some sort of edible treat from a bag he carried at his waist.

“The peasants, as you call them, are more than compensated for their work,” Ankor said.

“Of course they are; for you and your ilk have designed them for the very purpose of sustaining your existence while also not asking for the same existence in return,” Abraxas retorted. “They work for slop and a hovel to rut in, so that they can produce more of your workers. It’s a fantastic system, and I commend you and yours for it. But listen to me, running on! What is it that brings you to my court, Representative Watt?”

The 3D representation of a woman who existed somewhere else entirely took a deep breath and ran a hand across a sweat-soaked brow.

“Well, Lord Abraxas, I come to you as the replacement for our dearly departed Premier Eladin, who met a most untimely death, as you know. I have been elected as the new premier, though I doubt you honor my office. At any rate, I come to you to inquire about your intentions regarding Hastrom City’s infrastructure, particularly the water and power systems. It was agreed through a brokerage with Steigen that control would be maintained by the Corpus Verum, yet our Master Engineer’s recent reports show that someone is gradually shifting control of these systems over to a new control center, which we have traced to somewhere in this very building.”

“Why, I have no idea what you are talking about,” Abraxas said, and Thresha found his vocal performance to be rather convincing even if she couldn’t see his facial expressions under his mask. I assure you that this agreement will be honored. As I have stated from the very first, my aim has been to create a society in which both Eursan and Mendraga can live in harmony. I simply transferred the systems grid over to a control center of my own design. You might have noticed that the system is running more efficiently than it has in quite some time.”

Watt nodded, albeit begrudgingly.

“I will gladly return complete control of your city to your elected body once all threats, be they domestic or foreign, have been eliminated. I would most humbly advise you that my sources have revealed to me that there is an enclave not far from here, comprised of escaped slave bears and Fulcrum citizens, that could pose a threat to our community. I have also received word that this Ferron boy may still be alive, and embedded within the people of this enclave.”

“Letho Ferron is alive?” Ankor Watt exclaimed. Thresha’s heart stirred, a rare occurrence for someone whose body, for all intents and purpose, was clinically dead—save for that sweet moment when her feeding tubes were connected to a living being,and that sweet pulse of life was pumping another’s lifeblood into her own body.

“It would seem so. You can see the problem this presents to us. He is a bringer of chaos, and if my sources are correct, he could rouse the Fulcrum citizens into an insurrection that even my soldiers would have difficulty suppressing. Many of your race and mine would die,” Abraxas concluded, in his most convincing humble servant voice.

Ankor took it, hook, line, and sinker. “If this is true, I believe it does change things significantly. Do you have a plan in place, should he indeed surface alive?”

“Of course,” Abraxas cooed. “My associate has assured me that Letho Ferron currently poses no threat. Should this change, I will be in constant communication with you and your compatriots.”

Thresha’s heart leapt again. How could they know that Letho was alive? Had they read her mind? Or had Abraxas really infiltrated Haven? It would have to be someone living there, for Abraxas to have the information he claimed to have. Then she remembered herself and concealed her true emotions, lest someone discover them.

“Fools,” Alastor said to Thresha.

“How do you mean?” Thresha asked.

“This Letho. What do you know of him?”

“It was he who took me from the ship-wide conflagration that you initiated. I had been ready to die, but he saved me.”

“Yes,” Alastor said, his head dropping. “An unfortunate series of events. Trust me, my child, had I known the true depravity of our former associate Crimson Jim, I would have intervened. I am sorry that he killed Mavus. He was like a son to me.”

“Mavus means nothing to me anymore, nor does this Letho Ferron,” Thresha said, trying to hide her true feelings, willing her mind to be encased in a lead shield so that Alastor could not read it. Alastor reacted with merely raised eyebrows.

“Frankly, Thresha, I am surprised. From what I have heard, this Letho Ferron is rather charismatic, and I am surprised that you feel nothing for him.”

“He is an enemy of Abraxas. How could I feel any sort of connection to a being whose very existence opposes that of our master?” Thresha said, watching Alastor’s reaction.

“It is true. He must be eliminated. Can you believe that there are Eursans, even now, who meet in secret to discuss his travails? Well, at least they think they are meeting in secret,” Alastor said.

“It boggles the mind. How could anyone choose a man over the god-king?”

Alastor nodded in agreement. He smiled, but his eyes were troubled. Thresha couldn’t see his thoughts, but she caught the flavor of them. He was thinking about Abraxas, and his thoughts weren’t the subservient kind. They had a more rebellious bouquet.

“What is it?” Thresha asked, placing her hand on his. He slowly raised his head, locking eyes with her. They were a vibrant crimson, very striking, and under his gaze she felt herself losing a bit of her resolve. Things would be so much easier, for everyone, if she just told the truth. Perhaps Abraxas would spare Letho’s and Deacon’s lives, allowing them to live in exile, or in a prison somewhere. It wouldn’t be ideal, but at least they would live.

She clamped her eyes shut, trying to squeeze out the image of Alastor’s face and pleading eyes. She hoped that he hadn’t read her thoughts. It was only a matter of time, she thought, before he discovered the truth. If he hadn’t already. The constant struggle to keep her thoughts free of Deacon and Letho was growing rather tiresome, and she didn’t know how long she could keep it up.

“Thresha,” Alastor said, “I am so very glad you have returned to us, and believe me, I want to trust you… but please forgive me if I am unable to receive your words with complete trust.” He was using his best fatherly voice, and part of her believed for a moment that he was genuinely concerned for her. She didn’t rule out the possibility entirely, but at the same time she reminded herself that for Alastor, Abraxas and the quest to preserve their race would forever come first.

“What do I have to do to earn your trust?” she asked. “Anything. You name it.”

“I will keep this offer in mind,” he replied, patting her hand in perfect synchronization with his last two words. Then he reclined in his chair kicked up a leg over the armrest, and watched the rest of the exchange between Abraxas and Ankor Watt with mild disinterest.

Thresha wanted to sigh, wanted to melt into sobs and tears, thankful to no longer be under Alastor’s direct scrutiny, but she could not. She knew that it was foolish to bargain with such a being as him, but what else could she do? She felt as though she was living minute to minute, as if her every move was suspicious. How much longer could she keep this up? She knew that the price Alastor extracted from her would be terrible. She only hoped it would not get any of her friends killed.

****

Letho, Deacon, Bayorn, and Saul continued to follow a massive six-lane highway littered with abandoned automobiles. Like the others, these vehicles were rusted almost beyond recognition. The asphalt under their feet had begun to break up, the process hastened by thickets of gray weeds with massive thorns.

“Careful of those,” Saul said. “Poisonous. Not enough to kill, but hurts like nobody’s business.”

“Thanks, but avoiding the plants with the giant dagger-like thorns was already on the to-do list,” Letho said.

Saul smirked, but didn’t laugh out loud like Letho hoped he might. Saul seemed a little more anxious than was typical, for he usually strutted around cloaked in arrogance and bravado. Letho wondered what had him so worked up.

He’s probably just nervous. Like me.

“So, Letho Ferron. What exactly do you hope to accomplish today?”

“Like I said before, I want to get a look at what we’re up against,” Letho said.

“Have you considered the possibility that we will be apprehended immediately upon entering the city?” Saul asked.

“Yes, of course I have considered this possibility. I can’t really explain it to you, Saul, but this just seems like the correct course of action. Besides, if we do get in a bind like that, I know you’re always up for a fight, right?”

“You bet,” Saul replied. “Well, if our pops puts his faith in you, then so do I.”

“Thanks, bruin,” Letho said, though the words rolled awkwardly off his tongue.

“I just hope that you two don’t get me killed,” Deacon interjected. “I am much too handsome to die this young.”

They continued along a forsaken highway for hours that seemed like days to Letho, Hastrom City’s horizon growing ever larger. The sun was high in the sky, pummeling them with merciless heat. They stopped under one of the still-standing overpasses and climbed up under the supports to have lunch, but the shade provided little respite from the stifling heat. The air was palpably humid, thanks to their proximity to the coastline, and the roiling sauna effect was unbearable. Letho found that Saul had been right about the cloaks, in that they did protect them from the sun’s harsh rays. But the fact that the air was so saturated with moisture meant that their sweat couldn’t evaporate, and the heat was trapped in their bodies. Letho hoped they had enough water in their canteens to make it to Hastrom City and back before they became a meal for the mutants.

The city skyline was like ragged teeth jutting from a beast’s maw, and it grew with every step. After a time Letho was able to make out individual buildings, most of which were just skeletal frames with shattered windows and decaying facades. He could see the great wall that seemed to encircle the very heart of the city; it appeared to be constructed from pieces of fallen bridges and highways. In the center of the skyline was a palace stabbing upward into the sky.

“That must be where the bad guys live,” Saul said.

“Looks like he built his temple right on top of the Ministry of Civil Services Building,” Deacon said. “Pretty impressive. It’s amazing—even with the buildings falling down I recognize the layout. It’s just like the Centennial Fulcrum’s town center, only much bigger. Look at the Ministry building. It must be five stories high!”

“Yes, and Abraxas’s temple adds another four or five,” Letho said.

“Forgive me for interrupting,” Bayorn said in a low voice, “but I believe it would be wise if we assumed the identities of our costumes. We don’t know if we are being watched, even this far out from the city.”

“You’re right, Bayorn. Let’s get into character,” Saul said.

“What do you think, Letho? Do I look like a scavenger?” Deacon asked, turning his face into a scowl, squinting one eye, and opening the other wide, turning the pupil inward.

Letho wanted to laugh, but his guts felt as though they were consuming themselves. He chuckled lightly and nodded in recognition of Deacon’s attempt at humor.

“All right you two, quit screwing around and act rough,” Saul growled. “And Bayorn, act like you’re pissed to be in them cuffs.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Bayorn said in his chesty rumble.

****

They walked for another hour or so, following the road as it threaded between buildings that groaned under their own weight and wailed as the wind whipped through them. Letho couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched, either by Abraxas’s men or cameras. The third possibility—a horde of mutants, lurking in the shadows of the crumbling buildings where none of them could see—chilled Letho to the bone.

But they made their way to the massive gate built into the wall without incident. Letho was surprised to see that the gate’s steel doors were open, and there were only a few sentries guarding it. There were others, Letho saw, on top of the wall, each of them holding a rather menacing-looking long-range rifle.