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

Автор книги: Doug Rickaway

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

“Speak to me no more, lap dog of Abraxas,” Letho said in his best Tarsi.

Alastor’s eyebrows rose. “My my, you might have missed your calling. Perhaps instead of pursuing a career as a messianic figure you should have pursued a career in the music industry. What a lovely voice you have!”

“I still have your word that Haven will not be touched?” Saul asked, interrupting.

“That and more. We’ll open up trade lines, just as we agreed upon. Your little enclave will become a city. Hastrom City’s first true satellite.”

“You idiot,” Letho spat. “Do you really think he’s going to keep his end of the bargain?”

“Oh, Letho, this isn’t a videodoc,” Alastor said. “I actually do intend to keep my end of the bargain. The agreement Saul and I have brokered is mutually beneficial. Besides, I think there has been enough double-crossing for a time. Don’t you, Saul?”

Saul said nothing. His eyes cut from side to side, moving so fast they almost appeared to vibrate, as if he were processing something. Perhaps the reality of what he had done had struck him at last.

“Let’s go,” Saul said to the floor.

“Overseers, please restrain Mr. Ferron. Make sure the restraints are tight,” Alastor said.

“Get up,” one of the overseers barked as he forced Letho to his feet. Letho reeled like a drunk, his eyes bleary and crazed. The overseers quickly pinned his arms behind his back and clapped carbon-steel manacles on his wrists.

No one spoke during the short march to the elevator that led to the upper palace levels. Letho’s mind was returning to him though, his sorrow consumed by the raging furnace in the pit of his belly. He looked at Saul in disbelief. The man that he had come to think of as a brother was now striding in lockstep with the enemy. Letho prayed to any god that would listen for a chance to end the man’s existence.

Saladin, he remembered. But not yet.

After a short trip up in the elevator, the doors opened to Abraxas’s private quarters, which appeared to take up the entire top floor of the palace.

“Alastor, Saul! Come in,” said a voice from a thousand children’s sweat-soaked nightmares. “Bring me my prize.”

****

Bayorn and his army marched up Appian Thoroughfare, all that remained between them and Abraxas’s palace was Abraxas’s personal guard. But this last line of defense was made up of the elite—Abraxas’s most ruthless and cunning overseers—and they were dug in deep, behind sandbags and swiveling turrets.

They opened fire on Bayorn’s army.

Bayorn, the Tarsi, and the hammerheads took cover behind automobiles, park benches, anything that could deflect or slow a bullet. They were pinned down, suppressed by a constant hail of bullets. They returned fire sporadically, but anyone who dared to leave cover for too long was quickly dispatched by the enemy. The personal guard was too well entrenched; they had the superior ground. The progress of Bayorn’s army ground to a halt.

So close.

Then the clouds above seemed to part, and the eyes of Wagner’s angry valkyries transformed the night-lit cityscape to near daylight. The warships had arrived. Their automated searchlights moved in tandem with their targeting systems, lighting up turret emplacements with a barrage of 25mm automatic hellfire.

Energized by the sight, Bayorn leapt out of cover, roaring, firing his rifle at an overseer who had poked his head from behind a sandbag wall. The overseer collapsed as Bayorn’s bullets raked across his face.

Inspired by their leader’s courage, Bayorn’s army rushed to follow, surging from behind various cover spots. The tide had once again turned, and the army pressed forward.

But a familiar sound filled the air, and Bayorn’s hackles began to rise. The thud-thud of heavy footfalls rattled Bayorn’s teeth together.

This cannot be, he thought.

And then it appeared at the top of the stairs, its twin arm cannons cycling up.

The Jolly Roger.

The hulking, monstrous weapon of the Mendraga.

A weapon that had been destroyed.

 

“Hey assholes, remember me?” a voice shouted over a loudspeaker. “Where’s that Letho Ferron guy? I want to give him a piece of my mind.”

The voice was familiar to Bayorn, and as he peered carefully through the glinting faceplate of this new Jolly Roger’s helmet, he realized that the face, too, was familiar.

Swirling in the green wraith-smoke that powered the armor suit was the grinning visage of Crimson Jim.

****

“What the hell is that thing?” Deacon said from his warbird. He had seen powered armor before in videodocs, but there was something off about this one. It didn’t seem to have anyone piloting it.

He summoned his uCom, put in a call to Letho, and patched in the feed from his warbird’s camera. Then he panned the camera across the battlefield and zoomed in on the Jolly Roger.

“Letho, not sure if you’re in there, but as you can see, it’s getting pretty hairy out here. Could use some help!”

There was no reply.

****

“Welcome, Saul. Welcome, Letho,” Abraxas said as if greeting old friends. Thresha stood by his side, wearing an ornamental gown that glinted with jewels and gold thread.

Letho had seen images of Zetus, ancient Eursan culture’s representation of absolute evil, and he couldn’t help but feel that the creature before him must have been the inspiration for such illustrations. Abraxas’s face was uncovered, and the sight was nothing short of ghastly.

Alastor quickly knelt before his master and motioned for Saul and Letho to do the same. Saul obeyed, dropping to his knees, his face still blank. But Letho stood, defiant.

Abraxas fixed him with a stare. Letho detected no movement, no hint of action on Abraxas’s part, but he felt an unseen force press down on his shoulders. Against his will, he was forced to his knees.

“That’s better.” Abraxas smiled. “You may rise, my sons.”

Then Abraxas turned to Saul. “Saul Wartimer, in exchange for your services, and the delivery of Letho Ferron, I hereby decree that your silo community will become part of Hastrom City. Under our protection, your community will thrive and flourish. Over time your people will reclaim the territories surrounding your silo, and together we will work to restore order to this broken world.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” Saul said.

“Lord,” Letho scoffed.

“And you, Letho, will you join us? I could use a man of your talents.”

Letho scowled.

Abraxas shrugged. “Your friends are marching on the temple as we speak. It is likely that they will all perish in the conflict. But you have the power right now to save them from this terrible fate. Their names are… Maka and Bayorn, Ibelieve?” He smiled at the look of recognition on Letho’s face. “Yes, I see that I am right. Right about now, they are facing off with my good friend, Crimson Jim.”

No. How?

“Jim?” Thresha interjected. “He’s… alive?”

“In a sense, my dear. So sorry I forgot to tell you. He has taken Cantus Wheatley’s place as the new Jolly Roger.” You’ve all seen the devastating power of this being. Surely, Letho, you would want to save your friends from such a horrible fate. Swear fealty to Abraxas, and he will stop his attack.”

“I already told you, Mendraga. I have no more words for you,” Letho growled.

“Such lovely Tarsi-speak. In all my years I have never heard it produced so accurately by a human voice,” Abraxas said. “You are truly remarkable, Letho. Think carefully now, for your friends’ lives are in your hands.”

Letho felt Abraxas’s vile presence inside his head, felt his claws rifling through his thoughts and memories.

“Your dear friend Deacon. And Thresha? Ah yes, you are quite fond of her, aren’t you? You could spend the rest of your life with her. You could become one of us, and join her in eternity. Claim her! She is your prize.”

“Don’t listen to him, Letho,” Thresha cried.

“Silence, girl!” Abraxas shouted.

“Get out of my head, Abraxas,” Letho said.

“Perhaps we could reverse her condition—make her human again. The two of you could raise a family. Help us rebuild this world. All you have to do is swear allegiance to me.”

“No,” Letho said with a sneer.

“How dare you!” Alastor shouted. “Whelp, how dare you speak to our lord with such insolence?” But Abraxas waved him off.

“We are not the monsters you imagine us to be, Letho. In the end, we want what you want. To live, to flourish, to know peace. This is something that Eursans and Tarsi alike have denied us for millennia. I will concede that our methods of feeding and reproducing are… unique to our species, but are we so different in our ultimate aims? There must be some sort of accord that we could reach.”

Letho shook his head. No more words.

“I could tell you things you wouldn’t believe, Letho. My eyes have seen the comings and goings of many races over the vast expanse of time. I can tell you about the Tarsi, and the connection between our three races. Then you might see that we are not so different as you believe.”

Alastor turned to his master. “While we are on the subject of past occurrences, Lord Abraxas, I have something for you.” He withdrew Saladin from behind his back with a flourish, and Letho felt his stomach turn.

No. He is mine.

“I bring to you a gift I thought lost to us when this young man invaded our ship so long ago. May I present Saladin: Officer’s Tactical Package TM, a fitting blade to hang at your side.”

Alastor knelt and presented the blade to his master. Abraxas accepted it.

And Letho saw his opportunity.

Abraxas held the sword at eye level and pulled it a few inches from the scabbard, observing the flawless metal. The lead inlays began to blink a warning in red, but Abraxas paid no heed. “A noble gift. Thank you, Alastor,” he said.

Saladin, initiate anti-theft protocol.

A high-pitched whine filled the air. All present felt a surge of energy, and the hairs on their arms and necks stood at attention. Great blue gouts of electric current fractured the air. Abraxas’s body began to shudder, wracked with currents of energy. Saladin clattered to the floor.

Letho summoned strength from the great well within him and pulled his hands forward, against the manacles that held him. He gritted his teeth as the bones in his hands and wrists compressed, and his own flesh scraped against the carbon-steel and was torn from his hands and wrists. The pain was exruciating, but just a moment, and then it was over: his hands were free.

Sir, an incoming message from Deacon, Saladin said inside Letho’s mind. Saladin routed the video feed directly into his brain, and Letho’s stomach curdled at the sight of the new Jolly Roger. He saw Bayorn, Maka, and a bunch of humans and hammerheads taking cover from the fire, saw the mutants hot on their tails.

It’ll set off a pretty spectacular chain reaction, all the way down the line, down the middle of Main Street and right up Alastor’s ass.

The detonator. He really didn’t have any idea where the gas lines were; for all he knew they could be right under his friends now, and flipping the switch on Johnny’s detonator could immolate friend and enemy alike. But doing nothing wasn’t an option either: there were just too many of the mutants—not to mention the Jolly Roger and his twin chain-guns. His friends needed help.

Letho made a choice. Before anyone could react, he reached into his boot and removed Johnny’s detonator. He flicked off the oh-shit guard and activated the device. Then he waited to see what it would do.

Outside, a rumble of hellfire rose in the distance, followed by the sound of a rolling explosion. No, a series of explosions. The chain reaction Johnny had promised. The floor shook and listed beneath them, and the walls began to tilt and crack. Letho could hear the sound of marble ceilings meeting marble floors. Chaos erupted around them; the entire building shook, throwing people and furniture around alike, but it did not fall.

Johnny Zip’s surprise had worked to perfection.

Taking advantage of the sudden chaos, Letho blurred across the expanse between himself and Abraxas. He grabbed the sword from the floor with one hand and grabbed Abraxas by the neck with the other. Then, pulling Abraxas’s face close to his own, he plunged the sword deep into Abraxas’s chest.

Letho gazed into the creature’s ageless eyes, their noses almost touching. He snarled as he continued to push the blade home, forcing it upward and inward. And then Thresha was behind him, blurring in a speed that rivaled Letho’s own, sinking a dagger deep into Abraxas’s neck and severing his spinal cord.

Letho spun as he withdrew the sword from Abraxas’s chest, painting the walls with the spray of a god’s blood.

Even as his body went limp and ichor gushed from his chest and neck, Abraxas’s mind pushed outward with one final thrust, a mental explosion of godly proportions. To Letho, it felt like an invisible fist had slammed into him, flinging him across the room.

His back smashed against the wall, the panels behind him cracking from the impact, and he found himself pinned there. As he felt the constriction of Abraxas’s hideous power wrapping around his neck, choking him, he was dimly aware that Thresha was pinned as well and struggled beside him.

Alastor, however, was unaffected. As Letho and Thresha fought to extract themselves from the grip of an invisible hand, Alastor scooped up Abraxas’s limp body from the ground.

Alastor turned to Saul, his eyes wide. “You must kill him, or die in the attempt. Return to me triumphant or do not return at all! The fate of Haven hangs in the balance!” Then he threw the body of his master over his shoulder, rivers of ichor further darkening the obsidian leather of his cloak, and disappeared through a doorway behind Abraxas’s ornate chair.

Immediately, the force pinning Letho and Thresha in place dissipated, and they rushed forward, their blades bloodied and ready to spill more.

Everything was moving quickly now. One of the Mendraga guards snapped out of his stupor and began to fire at Thresha, who spun to face him and his cohorts, unleashing a series of sharp kicks that brought them to their knees. She grabbed one of the soldiers by his head, lifted him into the air, and swung his body; his neck snapped. Then she sent him bowling into the other Mendraga with enough force to shatter their ribs and spines.

“I’m going to kill you with your own gun, you bastard,” Letho spat at Saul.

Letho couldn’t read Saul’s expression. Was it confusion, or relief?

“We’ll see,” Saul said in a detached voice.

Thresha moved to engage Saul, but Letho waved her off.

The two men circled one another, each of them reluctant to strike. At last, Saul drew his pistols and began to fire. Bullets went spang! as Saladin spun, shielding his master. The bullets flew in all directions, sparking off steel and splintering oak.

Do not kill. Incapacitate, he told Saladin.

Letho’s eyes rattled in his skull as Saladin’s display overtook his vision.

Avert left. Target has five bullets remaining.

Determining appropriate velocity and trajectory. Disable target’s left arm.

Okay. Avert right. Disable target’s right arm.

Target is incapacitated. Good work, Letho.

Letho felt no joy in his heart as he stood over Saul. He watched from somewhere near the ceiling as someone else wrenched one of the Black Bear .50 calibers from Saul’s severed hand, and then the other. This person, who looked a lot like Letho, pulled the slide back on his weapon, checking for a chambered round.

Letho stared at Saul for a moment, and an understanding passed between them.

“Take care of my people for me, Letho,” Saul gasped as his lifeblood spurted from the arm-stumps that had once held hands. “I would ask you to tell them I died a noble death, though it is something I have not earned.”

Letho said nothing. He clutched the pistol hard in both hands, like Zedock Wartimer had instructed him to so long ago. The other sat in the holster in which it belonged. Saul leaned forward and placed his forehead against the Black Bear’s muzzle, and closed his eyes.

Letho fired.

Saul collapsed to the floor, his soul exiting through the canal Letho had opened in his skull.

****

Alastor carried his master down dark corridors, the remainder of Abraxas’s personal guard trailing behind him. The hitch in his master’s breath troubled him.

Just get him to the ship and everything will be all right, his mind repeated.

Within moments they had reached the hangar bay. Alarms pealed forth, heralding the coming insurgents and reminding Alastor of the crumbling ground beneath his feet. All that his master had worked for, all that they had built together, was like sand slipping between his fingers.

The old fool. He squandered everything.

Alastor broke into a run, feeling the limp body of his master flop like a child’s doll, listless limbs striking his back with every footfall. Alastor no longer felt the master’s blood running down his back and chest. He did not know if the wound had healed or if Abraxas was bleeding out.

When he reached the medical bay of their ancient Tarsi ship, he placed his master onto a bed and dropped to his knees at his side. He took Abraxas’s cold claw in his hand, attempted to revive him. The master’s eyes fluttered open.

“My son,” Abraxas sputtered.

“Yes, my Lord. I am here.” Agitation rose in Alastor, and a flash of something long forgotten fluttered through his mind. A kind man. A young boy sitting on his knee. A father. His father.

“My time draws to a close, my son. I cannot heal this grievous wound. I must feed from you if I am to survive. You will be weakened, but you will survive. Together, we will survive.”

Alastor’s body began to fill with anger. This creature had dominated his life, and he had willingly done his bidding at every step of the way. Yet never had Abraxas truly shown any sort of appreciation for him. Alastor thought again of the glorious empire they had created, and how this foolish creature in his arrogance had allowed it to crumble and slip between his fingers.

“I don’t have much longer. Please, do what I ask of you,” Abraxas whispered.

Alastor stepped back from the cot and sneered. “You old fool!You ruined everything. And now you ask me to give you my lifeblood? Why? So you can continue to blunder your way through another millennium?”

“Alastor, please, my son.”

“I am not your son, and you are not my father. You are a beast that deceived me in my darkest hour and turned me against all that I ever loved. I will listen to you no longer.”

As if in resignation, Abraxas’s head lolled to the side, exposing the weak pulse of his jugular vein. Alastor’s reaction was instant, involuntary. He opened his mouth and greedy feeding appendages spilled forth. Memories were flooding back. Images of his former self. He saw a young boy, garbed in fur and covered in his own blood, standing inside this very ship; he saw Abraxas’s feeding tubes slide forth and pierce the boy’s skin; he saw the injection of the poison that would transform that boy into the monster he was today.

How the tables had turned.

The barbs of Alastor’s appendages pierced leathery skin, and ecstasy filled him. Jets of a god’s blood spurted down his throat, filling his body with a world-shattering thrum. He felt ageless wisdom invading his brain, transforming it. Neurons exploded and multiplied, re-forming his brain as its matter expanded, ever folding and creasing. He saw everything that his master had ever seen, knew all that his master had known.

But, to his chagrin, it came at an unexpected price.

Behold, the price of your hasty decision. You and I are now one, Alastor. Wherever you go, so shall I. I shall haunt your every thought, scold your every decision. Now, look deep inside your mind. See our home planet. You must go there, and seek out the last of our kind.

“I no longer have to do as you say, Abraxas! You are nothing to me!” Alastor cried, looking down at the carcass of an ancient being that was already beginning to disintegrate.

You will do as I say!

A great spasm of pain raced through Alastor’s brain, as though someone had drawn a knife between the two cortexes. He fought it, and with all of his mental ability he managed to suppress the presence of Abraxas in his mind. The voice grew softer, and then altogether silent. The pain faded. He could hold Abraxas’s consciousness at bay, but he did not know for how long.

Alastor left the medical bay and headed to the ship’s navigation deck. There, he set a course for Tarsus.