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

Автор книги: Doug Rickaway

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

For a moment, Abraxas felt doubt. It was such a long-forgotten sensation that he didn’t quite know what to make of it at first. “You think you know better than me, little Eursan? I pulled you out of that shit pile your people called a village and made you what you are, but I suppose you’ve forgotten all of that, haven’t you?” Abraxas sneered. Now he, too, had grown angry. As the rage flowed through his body like wildfire, he was almost thankful that Alastor had defied him. For the opportunity to savor even the faintest trace of the emotions he had sacrificed for his longevity was sublime indeed.

“I never meant to—” Alastor stammered. “All I’m saying is—”

“Shut your stupid little mouth, whelp!” Abraxas roared. Alastor’s body lifted into the air, held at the throat by a unseen vise. “As if you could tell me anything I don’t already know, haven’t already pondered. Long have I lived. Much have I seen. What could you possibly know in that pathetic little clutch of nerves and synapses that my mind hasn’t already considered?”

Alastor continued to claw at the unseen hand around his neck. So strong were the instincts that drove his pitiful race. Desperately struggling as if he still breathed, as if closing off his windpipe could harm him.

Abraxas scoffed. “I want them to come. I have been waiting for them. Do you have so little faith in your lord that you would question me? I will show our people the true might of our race when I crush this pathetic uprising!” Abraxas roared.

He let go of Alastor at last, who collapsed to the floor, prostrate, gasping for air that he didn’t need.

“And this Letho Ferron. The people will abandon any notion that he is godlike when I drag him out to the town center and drink every last drop of his blood.”

“Yes, master,” Alastor said. “Please forgive me for my insolence.”

“Of course, my child. I forgive you, as always, though your lack of faith wounds me. Now get out. I can no longer bear the sight of you.”

Alastor nodded, dusted himself off and straightened his clothing, trying in vain to regain some shred of his dignity. As he turned to leave, Abraxas could feel his thoughts, seething and roiling. Thoughts of murder, of rebellion. It would pass. It always did.

****

“Come in,” Letho said.

Zedock opened the door to his son’s room. “What you up to?” he asked.

“Nothing, just thinking. Lots to think about.”

“I know. Tomorrow’s going to be one hell of a day.”

“Yeah,” Letho said.

“Sure wish I could go with you. But this old gut of mine don’t fit too good under a ballistic vest anymore.”

Letho laughed, and Zedock’s soul danced at the sound of it. Love poured out of him. He wanted it to be tangible so that he could in some way share it with Letho. But being a reserved man, he withheld it. He didn’t know it, but Letho could see it in the twinkle of Zedock’s eyes, and felt the same love as well.

“Well, they need you here to hold down the fort.”

“You’re right, I reckon.” Zedock sighed, drummed his fingers on his thighs, and looked aimlessly around the room. “Listen, I just wanted to say, in case… well, you know…” Zedock struggled with his words. “I’m proud of you, Letho. I wish things could have been different. I wish I could have been there for you when you were growing up. Like a father should.”

Letho looked up at Zedock, and their eyes locked. Zedock could see so much of himself in the boy, from the shape of his eyes to the firm jut of his jaw—though Zedock’s own jaw was hidden under flaps of hanging, aged skin. They even had the same nose.

“But you were there for me, watching over me,” Letho said. “I wish I could have been with you too, but you did good. I turned out pretty all right, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did, son,” Zedock said.

Letho stood up from his bunk, and they met in an embrace. Zedock held his son close, squeezing him tight, trying to suck in all the goodness of it, just in case it was the last one they would share.

“I love you, son.”

“I love you too, Dad.”

****

As Zedock left Letho’s room, he wiped tears from the corners of his eyes with a handkerchief. It was time to visit his other son. How long had it been since they had visited with one another? But it had grown difficult to balance his time between the two, and in his heart he knew which one he favored the most. Since Letho had returned, it had been difficult to look at Saul the same way. Letho’s excellence in the way he treated others and his selfless courage only magnified Saul’s faults in those areas. Still, he loved Saul, and they had shared many good times together. The sort of time he wished he could have shared with Letho.

He stood at Saul’s door, stopping in his tracks at what he heard. Saul was speaking to someone whose voice he didn’t recognize, but for some reason seemed familiar.

Who would be in Saul’s room at this hour? It didn’t sound like Saul’s friend Johnny. Then he heard Saul say the name Alastor, and his aged heart clenched. He staggered, bracing himself against the wall.

No. It couldn’t be. Saul would never.

The door was locked, but Zedock forced it open using his administrator’s keycode.

And there he was on the screen. Alastor’s sinister eyes locked on Zedock.

“Greetings, Mr. Wartimer,” Alastor said.

“Dad!” Saul exclaimed.

“Really, now, Saul, I think you can dispense with that term of endearment. He has a son already, and it isn’t you.”

“You, Mendraga, shut up! I won’t have your foul words spoken in my home,” Zedock said.

“Well, it looks like it’s time for you to decide where your loyalties lie,” Alastor said to Saul, ignoring Zedock. “I will leave you to it then.”

The screen went blank, and Saul turned to face Zedock, whose face had gone a bright red, a look of mingled anger and confusion spread across it.

“Saul, how could you?” he said.

“How could I?” Saul shouted. “How could I not? This plan is foolish. I am trying to arrange a truce between Hastrom City and Haven. Alastor has agreed to stay his hand. He even wants to open up trade routes with us. It’s what we always wanted!”

Zedock clutched his chest, his face going even redder. He staggered, steadying himself with a hand against the wall. “And what was his price?” he gasped.

“Letho,” Saul said quietly.

Zedock sobbed at the sound of his son’s name. “You would trade my son in some bargain with the devil himself? You are stupid, stubborn, and willful, and you always have been. Alastor will not keep his end of the bargain. He will burn this place down. Mark my words.”

“Your son?” Saul shouted. “I’m your son. What about me? I was there with you all along. I helped you build this place! Shed blood to protect it!” He stepped toward Zedock, who continued to clutch his chest, gasping for air.

“Need help,” Zedock wheezed. “Medic.”

Saul stepped behind his father. He wrapped one arm around Zedock’s barrel chest and placed the other over his mouth and nostrils.

The old man was burly and strong, but he was no match for Saul’s strength. He struggled mightily, shaking his head, trying to free his nostrils so that he could breathe, trying to break Saul’s grip by thrashing. He stomped on Saul’s foot as hard as he could, but Saul did not relax his python grip.

At last Zedock went limp, and it was over.

Saul let his father’s body fall to the ground.

Zedock looked so frail, old, now that his life had been extinguished. A throaty, hoarse wail from the pit of Saul’s guts erupted, ejecting ropes of spittle and bringing with it a flood of tears.

“Help!” he shouted. “Help!”

****

When Letho arrived, there was already a group of onlookers gathered around Saul’s room. He felt the weight pressing down on him as the horrible truth dawned.

His body wanted to turn and walk away, in order to protect his mind from what it was about to see. He knew what lay inside the room, and he did not want to see. But he pressed forward. He was a man in a trance. He barely noticed how hard he shoved through the onlookers, causing one of them to crash against a nearby wall. He heard muted shouting as if from a great distance.

And then he saw him, and his world cracked.

Zedock. His father. His shirt torn open, his bare chest and large stomach revealed for all to see. So undignified. Medics were working on him. One had some hideous mask with a bulb attached to it that he was squeezing, trying to pump air into unresponsive lungs. They attached electro-nodes to his chest and fired off a charge. It caused his body to jolt and seize up.

Just stop. Leave him alone. He’s gone.

Letho wasn’t sure if he thought the words or said them aloud, for nothing made sense. His eyes felt like they were going to explode from the pressure of the tears flowing from them. They weren’t enough to expel the grief inside him. He moaned a shapeless roar like a feral human who had never heard another person speak. When the medics stood up to talk to him, he pushed them aside, this time conscious enough to not hurt them with his unnatural strength. He knelt, and seized the body of his father, held it in his arms. It was still warm, and the tracks of tears streamed from his lifeless eyes.

Letho’s body shook with seismic sobs, and his own tears were a hot, incessant flow that fell upon Zedock’s face, mingling with the dried tears that he had shed before death.

The onlookers began to disperse, at last realizing that they were intruders on a very intimate moment. Letho held the body for a long time, sobbing, his cheek pressed against Zedock’s. He moaned and sobbed in such a percussive, staccato manner that it sounded like mad laughter. His body began to ache, and at last he lay his father on the floor and collapsed, his own body exhausted from the expulsion of grief. In his stupor he was vaguely aware that Saul was standing over him.

Saul, his false brother. He felt nothing for him at the moment, but he did not protest when Saul knelt beside him and wrapped him in an embrace.

****

They buried Zedock that day in a small cemetery in the green sector, where the vegetables were grown and the pigs were raised. Every citizen of Haven came out and stood shoulder to shoulder as the body of Zedock Wartimer, wrapped in a linen shroud, was lowered into the freshly dug earth.

Saul was the first to speak. “My father was a great man. Through his vision, this place became Haven, a place where Eursans and Tarsi could live free from Abraxas’s cruelty. He laughed with us in good times, and cried with us in bad. Now he is gone, claimed by a failed heart. A heart that was big enough to hold enough love for all of us.” He turned to Letho. “Is there anything you wish to say?”

Letho nodded, stepping forward. “We have lost one of the greatest men I have ever known. But his work, what he dedicated his life to, it will live on even though he is no longer with us. We—”

He was cut off by a roar of support from the crowd. Beneath the Eursan cheers Letho could hear the dulcet tones of Tarsi song-speak.

Zedock Wartimer, Friend of the Tarsi. We will meet again in the halls of our forefathers, they sang.

Letho raised his hand, and the crowd ceased their shouting.

“We will take the fight to Abraxas! We will do what Zedock would have wanted. We will claim the city for Eursan and Tarsi alike. There will be no more living underground, hiding like animals in a burrow. The time has come to strike the heart of Hastrom City, so that it can be reborn as it was meant to be! Will you take arms and fight with me against Abraxas and his Mendraga?”

Rousing shouts in the affirmative filled the air.

FIFTEEN – The Storm

“Letho, you do realize that the chances of survival are relatively close to nil, correct?” Saladin asked.

“I know,” Letho said. He had slept very little the night before. He had cried through the night, with what seemed only momentary respites of sleep. In his dreams, Zedock had appeared to him, pleading him not to go forward with his mission. But there was no stopping now. The machine had been set in motion, and he would play his part.

“No pithy comeback? No insult regarding my tendency to speak ad nauseam?”

“Not today, Saladin.”

“Yes, sir,” Saladin replied. For once the sword fell blissfully silent.

Deacon clapped Letho on the shoulder, startling him. Letho raised his arm by instinct and almost made a fist-sized impression in Deacon’s face.

“Whoa, sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you,” Deacon said, looking his friend up and down. He didn’t like the look that he saw in his friend’s eyes. Deep concern? Or was it fear?

“How do I look?” Letho asked. Tried to smile. Couldn’t quite do it.

“You look like a double-stuffed turd sandwich,” Deacon said. “Rough night?”

“Yeah. I can’t believe he’s gone, Deacon. When we got here, it was so wonderful to find out that he was alive. I—” Letho stammered, “I just wasn’t ready to lose him again.”

Letho felt tears coming on. Held them back. A few got by anyway, and Deacon shed a few sympathetic tears himself.

“He was a great man. The best,” Deacon said, sniffling. “But are you gonna be okay? I mean, with everything that’s happened, I’m worried about you, man.”

“I’m fine. Operating at one hundred and one percent efficiency,” Letho said, trying to smile again, and failing. “I’m a little scared, but I bet everyone is.”

“Come on, you’re Letho Ferron. The Letho Ferron. The bad guys probably have nightmares about you.”

“Good one,” Letho said.

“Hey, I’ll be here all week. Don’t forget to tip your waitresses,” Deacon said, and then his face grew solemn. “Listen, if I don’t see you…”

“Deacon, don’t do that. Just keep your head screwed on right, and don’t do anything stupid. You don’t have to prove yourself to me or anyone else.”

“No sweat, buddy, and you watch your back as well. We’ll see each other again.”

“Yeah, but we might be dressed in white robes and playing harps,” Letho said. He tried to chuckle, but it came out hollow, the coughing of a sputtering engine.

The two men encircled one another in a firm, momentary embrace, clapping each other on the back. It was the ageless embrace of comrades-in-arms, affirming a bond that went deeper than bone.

Saul cleared his throat, and the two broke the embrace. Saul raised his left eyebrow in a sardonic curve. “I wonder about you two, sometimes,” he said as he loaded an enormous box of ordnance into the back of the razorback.

“Just a brotherly hug is all. What, are you some kind of religious zealot or something?” Deacon said, shifting from one foot to another, hands on his hips.

“Yeah, yeah. Hey man, good luck out there. Don’t wreck our ship. And don’t cause the others to wreck their ships. They aren’t making too many of those anymore.”

“Don’t worry. I’m pretty much the best pilot on the planet,” Deacon replied, with perfect sincerity.

“Well, that ain’t saying much. Half the planet is full of brain-dead muties.”

“I’ll do what I can to get her back in one piece,” Deacon said, extending his arm to Saul.

“Seriously, brother. Be careful out there,” Saul replied, clutching Deacon’s forearm. The two men locked eyes for a moment, and then Saul nodded and released Deacon’s forearm.

Johnny Zip arrived just after Saul, and began to load a couple more crates of ordnance into the razorback. The men exchanged handshakes and idle talk, no one moving too fast to complete their pre-launch checklists. There was an air of finality settling over the day. No one wanted to face it head on, yet the inevitable conflict was pulling them forward no matter how slowly they carried their crates.

“Saul, did you get the right crates? The ones I set aside special?” Johnny asked.

“Yeah, I got ’em. Quit your worrying,” Saul spat.

“Easy there, boss. I ain’t ridin’ your ass for no reason. Just want to make sure we have exactly what we need. Shit’s gonna get hairy today, and I don’t want to be reachin’ for a fresh mag that ain’t there.”

Saul threw his hands up in the air, smiling, waving off Johnny’s response.

“We ready to go, boys?” Letho asked.

“Razorback is loaded, everyone’s here,” Saul said, casting a firm gaze at Letho. “I’ll take it from here if you don’t mind.”

“No problem. Take it away, fearless leader,” Letho said with a mock salute.

What’s his problem? He’s too jittery. Maybe upset about Zedock?

Just then Maka tackled Letho from behind, lifting him off his feet and pinning his arms to his sides with his massive arms.

“Put me down, you big lug!” Letho shouted. He could have freed himself, but he allowed Maka to hold him for a bit longer. At last the Tarsi put him down and Letho turned to face him.

“You be careful out there, Maka. Don’t be a hero. Come back alive. You, Bayorn, and I will have many stories to tell to the Tarsi when this is over.”

“Indeed,” Maka replied. “Be careful yourself, Letho. Today we fight in Zedock’s good name.”

“You’re damn right,” Letho said.

By this time, all those willing and capable of fighting had gathered, and all of the land and air vehicles, the few that they had, were lined up, ready to go. Saul hopped on top of his razorback and shouted to address the gathering of Eursans and Tarsi.

“All right folks, listen up,” he began. “We’ve been waiting for this for a long time, and I know y’all are probably feeling real uncertain about what’s gonna happen. That’s okay. Just remember that we each have a job to do. I want you to think about all the innocent folks in Haven. Everything you do today, every choice you make, must be to accomplish one goal: ensuring those folks’ continued safety. Today we fight so that they can live without the constant fear that Abraxas is gonna come knockin’ down their door. Keep your head on a swivel, watch your buddy’s back, and we’ll get through this. Y’all hear me?”

A raucous chorus of shouting and fist-pumping permeated the air in the tin-can tunnel as people began to disperse, boarding ships and climbing inside armored trucks.

Letho and his crew took their places in the razorback. Gear was checked one last time; rounds were slammed into chambers with thick, satisfying metal-on-metal clacks. Letho placed his hand on the butt of his .50 caliber and closed his eyes for a moment. He thought about the citizens of his Fulcrum station, of his father. He thought of the innocent folks who had died in Alastor’s ship. His blood boiled, and adrenaline surged through his veins like molten steel. He felt like he could move the earth itself with his bare hands.

A cool hand enclosed his; a vision of Thresha had joined him in the razorback. She had connected to his mind again, across the vast space between them.

“Be careful, Letho.”

“I will. I love you,” he said.

She did not reply in kind.

“Please, I need to hear you say it,” he said.

“I—” she stammered, “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“I love you too, Letho,” Johnny said, laughing.

Letho opened his eyes, suddenly all too aware of his surroundings. Johnny was looking at him as if he had lobsters coming out of his ears.

“Who are you talking to, anyways?” Johnny asked.

“Never mind, “ Letho replied, his face flushing.

The razorback rumbled to life, and Saul floored the gas pedal. The tires spun, struggling for purchase on the dust-caked steel floor of the tunnel. And then they sped off toward an unknown fate, the razorback’s halogens struggling to keep the shadows at bay.

****

Adum tapped the ring of ash off the end of his cigarillo. He enjoyed one last deep drag, feeling the oily smoke fill him with a brief respite from the drudgery of old Hastrom City. The inner workings of his mind were not elegant enough to put such a feeling into words, but he knew it when he felt it: when he stepped off the assembly line after a grueling day of work; when he lay with his wife; when his eleven-year-old son was able to scratch his first and last initial into the dirt floor of their hovel on the outskirts of town.

Adum gathered up his trade tools and began the long walk home. The biting chill of encroaching winter seared his aching bones, and the threadbare jacket he wore did little to help. He sidestepped a trash pile, then almost tripped on a thin leg that extended from it. The trash pile shuddered, and a head peeked out from beneath a tattered newspaper. A string of expletives sputtered from a mouth full of jagged black points that were once teeth. Adum only grunted and continued his trudge through the muck and mire, muttering to himself about drugged-out waste-oids.

He passed a boarded-up shop that had once been a grocery. He thought of how convenient it would be to go to such a place and purchase anything one might need, instead of haggling with the Mendraga overseers at the dispensary for items not on the approved necessity list. He imagined well-lit rows of goods with colorful labels, up for grabs for anyone with the credit. Like he had seen in a picture book once.

In front of the store’s entrance was a pile of mutant carcasses that someone had lit on fire. He thought about stepping toward the flames to warm himself, but damn did those things stink to high hell when you burned them. They were coming up through the sewer system more and more often, only to be put down by the Mendraga overseers. He had no idea why they came. Maybe they were hungry; seems like everyone was these days. Lots of mouths to feed, and not a whole lot of industrial food paste to go around.

As he continued his walk he passed a group of fellow tradesmen and a few Tarsi on a street corner. He issued a curt wave, but hoped to hurry past them. They nodded and beckoned him over. One of them had smarts, like him; Adum could tell because he used so many words. The way the man’s voice rose and fell from soft thunder to tumult mesmerized Adum, and against his better judgement he felt himself turning toward the gathering of workers.

The talking man was cleaner and better dressed than the men around him. His features were softer, yet still pronounced and hard-carved like his comrades’ in the working caste. It was his eyes that were different, striking. To Adum, they seemed to shine like polished metal. He wondered why he had not met this man before, who seemed so much like himself.

Adum knew that gatherings of more than a few people were forbidden, but still he could not turn away. A cheer was rising up from the Tarsi and the hammerheads. They were raising their fists in the air, pumping them in unison. Adum looked down at his own fists, the backs crested with coarse black hair, and found that they were clenched. He raised his own fist in the air and began to shout. The working men began to stomp and clap their hands together.

Then a low-pitched roar pierced the air, and the men froze. Their eyes rolled in fear and all display of bravado dissipated; in some cases it ran down their legs and puddled at their feet.

“Mendraga!”

Three roaring hoverbikes spun around the corner of the block, bearing down on the gathering of workers. Riding these great chrome and steel beasts were Mendraga overseers.

The overseers began to shout in their slippery, quick-tongued speak. The leader of the three dismounted and sauntered over to the gathering of terrified souls, brandishing one of the weapons that spit fire. He spoke to the smart one, and once again Adum found himself frustrated by his inability to understand all of the words they said.

But he knew that the overseer was berating the smart man. Impressively, the man who was standing his ground, giving as much as he was receiving. Adum looked over at the other two overseers. They were laughing; one was showing the other something on the little televisions they carried in their hands, completely oblivious to the kinetic crackle that was rising in the air.

The overseers and the smart man that was so like Adum continued to argue. Then, without warning, the overseer raised his metal stick and blew the smart man’s head off.

Immediately, a change came over the workers. The fear slipped from their eyes, and was replaced with rage—the kind that allowed a person to forget the idea of self enough to perform mighty feats in the name of his fellow man. The deferential downward tilt of their brows was gone as well; in its place they presented forward-jutting chins and set jaws. Adum saw one of the men in the back pick up a fist-sized rock from the ground.

Adum was slow, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew what was happening, and he found himself reaching into his pocket and pulling out the fire shooter that the sleepers had given him. He fired it; and his aim was true. The fire shooter did not recoil against the rigid strength of his arm. The overseer who had killed the smart man fell. The bullet had pierced his left eye, and it blew most of his brains out the back of his head and onto the other overseers.

The rock-wielder’s arm reared back and let loose. Adum saw the rock speed past him, and time seemed to dilate. The rock struck another overseer’s gauntleted hand, causing his fire shooter to fly from his hands. it pinwheeled through the air and skittered across the concrete, landing at a hammerhead’s feet. He recoiled back from it, thrusting his hands on front of him in a gesture that said “Not my fault!”

Suddenly the struck overseer blurred, unstuck from time as he shot across the expanse between himself and the rock hurler. He bowled through the thick swath of gathered workers like they were mere blades of grass, parting them like a scythe. Then he raised the rock hurler over his head and brought him crashing to the concrete with a sickening thud. The sight of the man’s head being reduced to pulp caused Adum’s gorge to rise.

One of the other hammerheads clamored for the fire shooter. Years of snatching circuit boards off assembly lines and soldering tiny transistors and data chips to them had given his limbs a deft quickness that was now an unexpected boon. Before any of the Mendraga could react, he had the weapon in his hands.

The fire shooter issued its thunderous report, and the back of the second Mendraga’s head exploded in a black mist. Adum didn’t hesitate; he lined up his sights and fired again, killing the last remaining overseer.

The working men cheered and clapped each other on the backs. Some were crying.

One of the Tarsi stood up on the hoverbikes: Bayorn. And around him stood several of the biggest Tarsi Adum had ever seen. Like Bayorn, their claws glimmered in the moonlight, and their teeth were as sharp as knives.

Bayorn issued a gravelly roar that caused Adum’s blood to reach a feverous boil. He found himself returning the war cry. Then Bayorn walked over to him and extended his hand. Adum cocked his head. He felt stupid, ashamed, as all eyes fell on him.

“It’s okay,” the Tarsi said, extending his hand again. Adum extended his own, and the Tarsi grasped it, pumping it up and down.

“It is time to fight, Adum. Are your people ready?”

“Yes. The sleepers gave me the fire shooter,” Adum said. “They told me that the fight was coming. And they gave me this.” Adum held out the access card that would open up a cache full of fire shooters.

“Is this what I think it is?” Bayorn asked.

Adum nodded.

“Excellent!” Bayorn shouted. “Let’s go. We must make haste.”

“But, Bayorn, who will lead my people?” Adum asked.

“It seems as though they follow you,” Bayorn replied. He gestured to the crowd. “See how they look at you.”

Adum swelled with pride and thought of his son. He wished that the boy could see his father now.

He raised his hand and began to speak slowly so that they could all understand. “Go to your homes. A fight is coming. Tarsi and workers will fight together, when the time is right.”

The men nodded to one another and began to exchange the odd hand-shaking gesture that Bayorn had demonstrated. Then they disappeared into the oncoming night like shadows, leaving the bodies of the Mendraga in the street.

****

Alastor burst into Abraxas’s private quarters.

“My Lord, the working caste have attacked a group of overseers!”

“What? Why is it not showing up on my scanner?”

“Someone has disabled the security protocols for that sector. I have been unable to establish communications with any of the overseers in that area. Another overseer heard gunfire and went to investigate. He found three dead overseers, and their weapons were missing.”

Terror filled Abraxas, and though it was not a particularly pleasant emotion, he relished it as it surged through his body like wildfire.

“My Lord,” Alastor continued, “what are your orders?” His eyes were wild, full of doubt. Seeing that doubt stung Abraxas more than any level of defiance ever could. It set off a chain reaction in Abraxas’s own mind. What if he had been wrong to scold Alastor earlier? Perhaps he had underestimated his hold over the city.

Letho Ferron is coming, Abraxas thought. Let him come. I shall drink his blood from a bowl made from his very skull.

“Lord Abraxas?”

Abraxas searched his mind, spinning up the ancient organic computer that rested inside his skull. Who had the clearance to disable security protocols? There were only a few. Premier Watt sprang to mind.

No, not her. She wouldn’t dare. She cares too much for her own well-being, he thought. It had to be someone a little bolder. Perhaps older, with less to lose. Someone who had a working relationship with the hammerheads who now appeared to be in full revolt.

“We have a greedy rat in our nest, Alastor.”

At last it came to him, as the infinite coils of his intellect fired with the heat of a billion synapses. In a flash, he knew. He saw the man’s face as though it were projected on his holoscreen.

“Wake Steigen. Drag his putrid carcass out of his pod,” said Abraxas.

“My Lord?”

“Do as I say,” Abraxas hissed.

****

Alastor returned with two Mendraga supporting a bedraggled Steigen, who was too weak to walk. He had lost some weight in his hibernation, yet he did not appear to have aged a bit. His head lolled like an infant’s, and his body seemed incapable of enacting his brain’s commands. Alastor deposited him in a chair before Abraxas.

All of the air seemed to seep from the room as Abraxas studied the chancellor. Abraxas’s eyes burned like hate-filled embers, and his taut lips quivered as he fought to clear his mind enough to speak to the sub-creature before him. He hadn’t bothered to put on his ceremonial headdress, and Steigen recoiled in abject fear as Abraxas turned his naked gargoyle head to the side. When it turned back, a cruel smile wrapped itself around glistening teeth.