by Richard Fox
Clay grabbed the Tyr by the front of his work overalls and launched an uppercut into his groin. Human or not, that was still a quick way to remove a male from a fight.
Clay didn’t see the pipe, but he felt it whack against the back of his skull. He fell to one knee, his vision swimming. Putting a hand to the back of his head, he accidentally swiped up his ear.
The flashlight was in his face along with the barrel of a pistol.
Clay’s synth layer scrunched around his face, shifting from caste to caste as the blow from the pipe and his own touch caused it to malfunction.
“Disgusting. Even with all those faces…you have no soul. Get the cuffs,” the Tyr said. “The thicker set. He’s stronger than I thought.”
A weak groan came from the Tyr Clay had struck in the groin.
“Fucker…cracked some ribs,” the other said.
“Hurry up,” another hissed. “They’re almost done with the ceremony.”
A bell chimed slowly from the pyres on the other side of the airfield.
“Leave him alone!” Sazon hurled the coffee maker at the Tyr with the pistol and hit him in the shoulder.
The Tyr snarled and pointed the gun at her. Sazon’s jaw fell open and she thrust her hands forward like she was warding off a punch. “Sorry! I’m sorry! Don’t—”
Clay slapped a hand down on the Tyr’s wrist and knocked the weapon aside as he fired. The bullet sparked off a metal strut on the back of the truck and the Tyr on lookout began speaking in a rapid-fire dialect Clay didn’t know.
Clay smashed his forehead into the bridge of the Tyr’s nose and the other crumpled. Stripping the pistol out of his hand, Clay fan-fired at the lookout, striking him in the torso. He grunted and crumpled onto his hands and knees.
The fallen flashlight spun around, coming to bear on the third one behind Clay. Snapping his head to one side, Clay saw the Tyr had a pistol in hand. It was aimed right at his face.
The Tyr—the darkness of his ketafik running down the side of his face and dripping onto the asphalt—sneered at him. “You weren’t worth this,” he spat. “None of you are.”
The pistol shifted to aim at the one Clay had shot and fired twice. The already wounded Tyr’s head snapped back with a cloud of blood and skull fragments.
“Brother, don’t!” The one Clay had taken the pistol from reached out.
A single shot through the forehead and the Tyr went limp against the ground.
The shooter put the barrel in his mouth and fired one last time.
Clay let the weapon in his hand slip away and clatter to the ground while shouts and the clomp of boots sounded in the distance.
“Sazon…say something.” Clay touched his face, feeling the synth straining as it stabilized.
“They’re…this can’t be…” She was out of the truck and at the side of the dead Tyr just behind Clay, a penlight in hand. Sazon ran a thumb down the Tyr’s face, then rubbed an inky substance between her fingertips. “He has no ketafik. He’s not a Toiler or a Blooded or…”
“Hidden. The Tyr with no markings at all.” Clay’s synth layer slowed its cycling and finally stopped with him as a Blooded.
“I thought they were a myth.” Sazon frowned. “But things have been all sorts of impossible as of late. What did they want with you?”
“I don’t know,” Clay said. “These are the first ones I’ve ever encountered.”
“Clay. You’ve guided me through everything with your caste. There’s no need to keep a secret now, so just—”
“I. Don’t. Know,” Clay said.
Sazon narrowed her eyes at him for a moment, then turned her attention back to the Hidden.
“Most peculiar. Not only do I have cadavers from your caste to examine, now there are Hidden and—the coffee shrine!”
Sazon hurried over to the appliance at the dead Tyr’s feet.
Armed Blooded arrived and Clay raised his hands.
“You, state your clan. What unit are you with?” a sergeant demanded.
“He’s mine.” Fastal pushed through the security team and put a hand on Clay’s shoulder. He looked down at the Hidden’s ketafik, the darkness flowing off his face like ink dropped into a glass of water. “Get the bodies…by their gaze, what is this?”
“Spies come to take what we captured off the sky demon’s ship…sir,” Clay said. “I heard the honored Royal calling for help and did what I could.”
“Yes!” Sazon hefted the coffee maker back onto the truck bed. “Exactly that. And exactly whatever else he says.”
“You have a magnet in your heart for trouble,” Fastal said, his mouth twitching as he examined Clay’s new Blooded ketafik, “soldier.”
He led Clay to the side of the truck while others searched the dead. “Explain. No, don’t. There any more surprises in store for us? Because I have to get to Prince Riktan as soon as possible,” Fastal said.
“I didn’t know there were kidnappers…or assassins looking for me. Not Tyr ones, at any rate,” Clay said. “What I’m trying to figure out is why they didn’t kill me when they had the chance. They wanted me alive. You search the area and you’ll find either their getaway vehicle or some warm tread marks from where it used to be.”
“I’m starting to miss fighting Slavers,” Fastal said. “Maneuvering my corps through hundreds of miles of terrain against the hordes? Battle command in the middle of typhoons blowing in from the Vast Sea? Balancing the egos of Royal commanders against the better tactical, operational and strategic advice of Blooded officers? All that feels a hell of a lot easier than what I’m dealing with now.”
“For what it’s worth, I think you’re managing it pretty well,” Clay said.
“You are helping, but you can also go fuck yourself. Because now I have to explain why I have a new aide that’s rather similar to the Close Guard that was in that ship with me but no one’s ever seen before. No, don’t switch back. How about a little less complexity, yeah?”
“I’m your aide. I’ll work out the backstory for you,” Clay said.
Fastal looked out to the horizon and the first hint of dawn. “At least yesterday’s over. Come, we need to get the convoy ready. Now I have to tell Prince Riktan about the damn Hidden too.”
Chapter 48
Yenin sat on a concrete slab topped by a pitifully thin mattress that stank of spilled alcohol. Tyr were huddled outside the bars of her cell, all staring at her intently.
Her muumuu and other acquired clothes were in a pile to one side of the slab. The pistol was beneath the back of her flight suit, and it remained an option if she heard wood getting stacked outside.
“I have to pee,” she said and the Tyr began speaking amongst themselves. “Look, you put me in a cell and give me an audience, nature will call.”
When she heard pencils scratching on paper, Yenin rolled her eyes, walked over to the toilet, and pointed at it, making a hissing noise.
The Tyr got very quiet.
“This is not…are you all pervs or just short on the uptake?”
One of the aliens—a male with a thick band across his eyes that wrapped into his temples and vanished in his hair—pushed some of the Tyr out of the way…only to reveal a crude-looking camera on a tripod.
“For the love of…” She slipped on the muumuu and used it to obscure her as she did her business. Some of the Tyr got very animated, and she stared right at the one that wanted the camera involved as she tinkled. She finished up, fixed her pants, and tossed the muumuu aside.
“Boom.” She pressed the handle on the toilet, but it didn’t flush.
The cell door opened and the camera enthusiast and a younger female with blotchy marks came in. She held a camera.
“You’re going to make it weird, aren’t you?” Yenin asked.
A Tyr sneezed outside the cell and wobbled on his feet.
“Barsa,” the male said, touching his chest then pointing at the female. “Tol.”
“Yenin.” She poked her sternum.
The
Tyr outside repeated her name over and over as Barsa reached slowly toward her face, then lifted up some of her blond hair. He rubbed it between this fingertips and spoke to the camera.
“Corporate never mentions this in the recruiting videos,” she said. “It’s always debt reduction and skill acquisition.”
Barsa looked at her with wide eyes.
“You know, I just wanted to be a dentist. Fifteen percent of people can’t stand the auto-docs. They want an actual human being to fix their teeth. And a lot of those fifteen percent are pretty well off, so a dentist that offers a ‘hands-on’ experience makes a pretty decent salary on any world with a decent population. That’s what I was going to do after I’d saved up enough money. Dentist. You guys have those?”
Barsa and Tol traded confused looks.
Barsa touched Yenin’s forehead and traced tiny circles into her skin, all the while narrating for the camera.
“This is going to be a long day.” She cleared her throat and swallowed hard. Some warm lemon water should clear up what was bothering her, but getting that would be something of a challenge.
The doctor—Yenin decided that was what Barsa was—shined a light in her eye and she noticed that he had a few more pupils than her. He wiggled her nose and Yenin sighed. He poked her left breast—which was significantly more ample than any Tyr female she’d seen thus far—then drove his finger in a bit harder.
“Ow!” Yenin slapped his hand aside and he fell to the ground, clutching his fingers. “We’re going to learn some boundaries, OK?”
Barsa began coughing and it spread like a yawn to other Tyr outside the cell. Tol sniffed hard and wiped her nose.
“Is it allergy season down here?” Yenin cleared her throat again.
Barsa crawled out of the cell, still coughing, and was taken away.
Tol proffered up the camera and Yenin held out a hand and flipped it up and down.
“Sure, toots, this is better than an autopsy, right?” Yenin felt flush as she splayed out her fingers so the Tyr could get some images. Tol snapped pictures even as her nose was running.
Someone called Tol out after a few minutes of the photo shoot. Yenin mimed drinking and, much to her surprise, a box full of a variety of bottles was pushed into her cell. She looked each one over before finally settling on what looked, smelled, and tasted like sparkling water.
A Tyr passed out as she drank, and finally, a male with spot markings called out orders in a phlegmy voice. Her audience was gone.
“Maybe one of these are booze. If not, there might be something with enough sugar for pruno down the line.” She looked at the non-flushing toilet and gave up on the idea of prison wine for now.
As she lay down, she felt a heaviness in her chest.
“Am I getting sick? Thought I had all my shots.” She tried to remember the last time she slept and drifted off.
Chapter 49
“Why can’t I reach anyone?” Suumsar tapped his earpiece. “Why are all the radios dead?”
He was in the basement of the safe house along with Sarah and Michael. A pair of Royal Shadows, both armed with assault rifles, guarded the only way in or out.
“Radios operate on an electromagnetic spectrum.” Sarah held her hands up and explained things slowly. “They can be jammed with enough power on the spectrums you use. That’s assuming your equipment even works after they hit the place with an electromagnetic pulse. Which is why none of the lights are working.”
“And you told them our frequencies?” Suumsar took the earpiece out and shoved it into his pocket.
“They only had to listen.” Sarah pointed to the sky. “They’re using quantum-linked point-to-point receiver/transmitters, not something that can be jammed or intercepted.”
“So even if we could broadcast…they’d pick up everything we sent. But our codes—”
“Your encryption is a joke,” Michael said. “I used to break them with my slate all the time and listen to the Shadows and what the King was up to.”
“We need to get out of the city.” Sarah pointed to a small window. “This sort of attack, it’s isn’t an all-out assault. They’re trying to sow confusion and keep you from reacting to their real target.”
“And go where? You think you know where your caste’s true attack is?”
“I know it won’t be in the countryside. Not in the ambary fields or the plains. I can’t help you—or the King—if we’re trapped in a burning city. You’re a Shadow. I thought that meant you had to be decisive and quick-witted.”
“Just because you can wear the gods’ touch doesn’t mean you know anything about us,” Suumsar growled. “Our guns will still work just fine, won’t they?”
“So long as there’s no electronics involved,” Sarah said with a shrug.
“Laden Basket Street is on fire,” someone shouted from up the stairs.
“We get them across the Southern Wild Bridge to safe house thirty-seven, understood?” Suumsar said to the pair of guards, then he turned to the Clays. “Can you change your caste? If you’re Royals, the armed guards around you will attract less attention.”
Sarah pinched the outside of one ear and swiped down. Her synth layer changed to the wide, dark swath down her nose and over her mouth and chin. Michael did the same.
“Evil,” Suumsar said, “that is pure evil. Come on.” He hurried them up and out of the building and through a parking lot. A group of Shadows formed a loose circle around Sarah and Michael as they followed the head agent.
Sarah looked around, the heat from the fires pressing against the back of her neck. She recognized their location—just outside the city’s docks.
Tyr trickled out of homes, most carrying bags and suitcases as they moved to a bridge, its shadows flickering against the night from the burning city.
“It was never this bad during the Slaver War,” one of the Shadows said.
“Keep it to yourself,” Suumsar said. They skirted most of the crowd and moved to a chain-link fence over a tall concrete wall leading down to the mouth of the river where it poured into the ocean.
“Going to get bad over the bridge.” One of the Shadows pointed and Sarah made out thousands escaping from the city.
“We all know where to go,” Suumsar said. “Keep positive control over the prisoners and link up at the next safe house. This is easy.”
“Give it back!” A pair of Islanders, both in sailor outfits, began fighting just ahead of them. One drew a knife and slashed at the other, missing.
“Around,” Suumsar said, veering off to avoid the fighting men and heading toward the throng of Tyr closing in on the bridge. He kept one hand inside his tunic, gripping his pistol.
“Hey, any of you want to buy some chass?” asked a Toiler, bumping into Suumsar.
Sarah’s eyes widened and she threw herself onto Michael, taking them both to the ground.
Gunshots broke out and a bullet smacked into the grass next to her face as she did her best to shield her squirming son. She looked up and found Suumsar lying next to her, blood dripping from a bullet wound to the cheek. His dead eyes stared at her.
“Faan gu, tak tak!”
Hands ripped her off Michael and she was being carried toward a gap in the fence. Nothing but a steep drop to the bay lay on the other side.
“No, no!” She twisted, using her deceptively strong human muscles to wrench free of one of the Tyr holding her.
The Toiler that bumped into Suumsar gave her an angry look, then thrust a rusty pistol into her face. She slapped it aside hard enough to send it flying, then backhanded the Toiler across the face.
“He comes with us!” She pulled her other arm free and looked back to where she’d lost Michael.
The brass on the knuckle-duster flashed before it crashed into the bridge of her nose. Her vision flashed white and the world muted around her. She felt grass against her heels and saw smoke rising across the sky to wash out the gods’ faces so they wouldn’t see how their children suffered.
Arm
s wrapped around her stomach and she had a brief feeling of weightlessness before she slammed into the cold water of the bay.
****
“Mom!” Michael shouted as a pair of Tyr held his shoulders down.
Two Islanders had just jumped off the wall and into the sea with her and he was on the edge of panic.
“Stop.” A Blooded leaned over and looked him in the eye. Michael froze, not because he was done fighting, but because the Tyr said the word in English.
“Stop make fight. Yes.” The Blooded touched two fingers to his mouth then pressed them to Michael’s. “Mother safe. You safe. We take you safe. Take you mother, father. Yes?”
“How the hell…” Michael’s mouth kept moving, but he couldn’t say anything.
“Friend not friend. Move.” The Blooded and two other men, both Toilers, helped him up. “Place…” He spoke to the others in a dialect Michael didn’t know.
“Kitty,” a Toiler said.
“Kitty bad spirit.” The Blooded pulled him toward the bridge then cleared his throat and spoke the King’s language. “Enough of that tongue. There’s enough panic that no one’s going to care what we say or that we’re covered in chagash blood.”
Michael almost tripped over a body as they got into the throng pressing toward the bridge.
“You stay with us,” a Toiler said in his ear.
“Your face. The synth,” the other said and Michael’s chest seized up. “Change to Linker. We’re your hired help if anyone asks.” He took off his tunic and draped it over Michael’s face just long enough for him to change the synth settings, and he emerged as a Linker.
A Toiler girl on her father’s shoulder saw the whole thing, and her eyes went as wide as saucers.
Michael pressed a finger over his lips and winked at her.
“He can do that a hell of a lot faster than we can,” the Blooded said. “Not bad. Just behave, kid. We’ll keep you alive and get you back to your—”