Ashes of Andromeda (The Last Archide Book 3)

by Chad R. Odom

  “Who did you say was waiting?” he asked Sicari, but when no answer came, he realized he was alone. “Great talking to you! Love the details!” Oryan smirked at the very one-sided conversation. “That maybe one of the best conversations I’ve ever had with him,” he murmured under his breath. With one more glance behind him, he started the trek.

  ***

  Sicari had been correct. There were no other paths to take. Other than a slant right or left, this tunnel led in a straight course. Aside from the echoes of his footfalls and his occasional singing to himself, the miles passed uneventfully.

  The echoes began to fade, and the tunnel gradually angled upward. He heard the sound of air rushing toward an exit. Softly at first, then louder as he walked. His pace quickened as his anxiousness renewed.

  The tunnel opened into the bright afternoon sun. Over him was a canvas, which blocked direct sunlight, but all around him its light shone as the air brushed out of the tunnel and across his back. He stepped out from under the canvas into the direct light. On every side were high rock faces and mountains that looked as though they had at one time been excavated caverns. There was a path ahead carved expertly through the rock, but no paved roads or other signs of civilization existed. A hundred feet outside of the tunnel sat the huge transport, resting on its rail for the return journey to the garage. It looked rather like a massive egg to Oryan, but he scrutinized it more closely and could see the genius in the design.

  “He made you walk the tunnel!” said a voice from above the canvas. “He didn’t even make your wolf do that the first time she came here.”

  Oryan faced the voice. A man, slightly older than he, but not the years of Sicari, sat causally in the rocks above the tunnel’s exit. His clothing was similar to Sicari, though it held more colorful variations. It was a mixture of browns and greens; very earthy tones that made him virtually invisible when he remained still. He stood up and nimbly jumped down the rocks onto the ground some fifteen feet from Oryan.

  His brown eyes squinted in the sun. “That man,” he went on, “he does love his petty torments. He’ll never tell you that, though. He calls them ‘lessons.’”

  Oryan took note of his long hair, realizing it had been some time since he’d seen a male with a style like that. Even more distinguishing was the scar that ran from his forehead past the outside of his right eye and down his cheek.

  “My name’s Corvus. I’ve been waiting for you,” he extended a hand to Oryan. “I’m here to show you to the camp. Before I do that, do you have any questions? I mean real questions. The kind that Sicari is so fond of dodging.”

  “You know, I thought of at least a dozen while walking here but now, I can’t remember a single one.”

  “Fair enough! Well then, this way. I think you’ll find the tour rather dull. Unlike your journey here, we’ll use a transport and we’ll be at the camp in a few minutes.”

  That was a welcome thought. Oryan followed Corvus to a shuttle of sorts. Much smaller than the one on the rail with a flat bottom and curved top. The two fit comfortably in the seats, which had an open canopy. Corvus placed his palm on the vehicle’s front panel. The vehicle floated on air, but smoothly. No matter the terrain, the craft stayed perfectly still. Apparently, it was now active, but it made neither noise nor movement. However, it sped through the jagged canyon pass with ease.

  The two said nothing to each other during the trip. No more than three minutes later, the vehicle slowed and finally stopped near the end of the pass. Light poured in an opening at the end of the high, rough walls surrounding them. Corvus climbed out of his seat and Oryan followed suit.

  “This is the camp. Sicari wanted me to show you around, but I find it best to let new-comers find their own way. I’ll come with you as far as the perimeter, then, you’re on your own.”

  “Sicari called it a city.”

  “Semantics, really. It’s big enough to be a city, but I call it a camp. Everything here is designed to go up fast and go down faster if needed. That seems more like a camp than a city to me.”

  Oryan shrugged and shouldered his pack before he walked into the opening, the sounds of people coming to life. There was a ten-foot-tall rigid wall that seemed to grow out of the rock, which surrounded the perimeter of the camp. Just to his right was an opening, and he heard the footsteps and voices of dozens of people all coming and going about their various tasks.

  As he rounded the wall, he was taken off guard. It was unlike any camp Oryan had seen, the term ‘camp’ far from the mark. There were no tents or fires or any signs of what he considered ‘camp life’. Instead, there were rigid structures that appeared at first to be made of cloth, but they did not curve or flex. Oryan touched the material. It was as firm as rock, but still soft to the fingers.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “We call it permatemp. Fitting, I suppose. Believe it or not, that structure could easily fit in the pack you’re wearing now. It travels like cloth, but once erected, it’s as solid as any other building material. It insulates wonderfully, keeping you warm in the winter and cool in the summer. Then, if necessity dictates, it collapses right back down into something you can fold and pack away.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “A long time.”

  All along the outer wall was a row of similar permatemp structures. The road seemed to be composed of well-kept dirt and gravel, but to walk on it was like walking on glass. There was an invisible layer of something Oryan could not identify over the top that kept debris from being blown around and made sure your feet were always on smooth ground.

  As he looked up both sides of the street, he could see the people behind the voices. They went from structure to structure, smiling and greeting each other. Some of the children followed in tow with the adults, while others ran and played without a care in the world. There were no parents following them full of concern for their well-being or shaking a stern finger when they stepped out of line.

  Everyone dressed in earthy tones of brown and green. The women flaunted hues of desert orange and other brighter colors. When he saw blues, or purples, he was convinced the cloth had been spun straight from the flowers blooming in the gardens. This place in both its simplicity and its brilliance was absolutely beautiful.

  A young boy bounded up the street playing with a friend and, not looking ahead, ran head-long into Oryan. With great care, he reached down to help the child to his feet. The boy stood up straight and refused to look up past Oryan’s chest.

  “Sorry, sir. It was an accident.” There was respect in the boy’s tone and also concern that he had offended a stranger.

  Oryan crouched down beside him and the boy finally looked Oryan in the eyes. He offered a smile and the boy’s demeanor changed. The boy was almost too grateful to someone who had simply forgiven him for a minor offense.

  He asked the boy. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Calvin. What’s your name?” he responded inquisitively.

  “Oryan,” he said.

  The boy’s eyes lit up. “I knew it was you! I’m gonna go tell my mom!” With that, the boy ran off down the road. Oryan remained still.

  “He just has to tell someone,” Corvus said.

  Suddenly Oryan remembered why he was here. He stood up and looked at Corvus. “I guess I need to go and see her, whoever she is.”

  Corvus nodded. “Yes, you do. This is where you and I part ways. Think of this place as a big wheel with seven spokes. There are seven divisions within the camp. There are paths between each division that lead in a straight line to the center as well as paths that meander through the divisions. Stay on the spokes; you’ll go straight to her in the middle where you’ll find a courtyard with three fountains and an obelisk. If you get lost, ask anyone where the obelisk is. They’ll get you back on track.”

  “How will I know who she is?”

  Corvus smiled again. “Don’t worry. If you can’t figure it out, she’ll find you. Good luck!”

 
With that, Corvus walked away from Oryan and back through the exit that led to the pass. Now, he was in a completely foreign environment and the only name he could put a face with was a boy no older than five. He sighed and began the slow march through the camp.

  The journey was full of amazing discoveries. It appeared that these people were able to take a thriving metropolis and condense it into an area several times smaller. There were markets with delectable fruits and vegetables, though money never seemed to change hands. The people were all courteous and receptive to courtesy. They seemed to know each other by name.

  Finally, he reached the inner courtyard. The markets had stopped, as had the houses. However, gardens with herbs and flowers dotted the scenery. Children ran around him, playing joyfully with each other. Some adults were playing with the children, others simply smiled and passed by on their way to the other side of the courtyard. Oryan caught two particular youngsters who were playing what seemed to be a spirited game. It had rules and objectives that Oryan picked up on, but he had never seen nor heard of the game.

  They darted to and fro, chasing one another near the edge of the courtyard, carefully avoiding the plants that grew around them. As they dashed toward the center, Oryan took notice of the fountains for the first time. The water that spouted from the center danced in the light, changing color in a spectacular array. Like everything in this place, they seemed to be grown, not built.

  Two adults stood talking in front of one of the fountains and Oryan was rather impatient with them to move. He wanted an unobstructed view of the courtyard. Just as he was about to ask the pair to move, they parted, and in the space where they had once been, she was there.

  She sat on the rim of the fountain and dipped her hand into the water. Her soft red hair fell perfectly around her shoulders. Her garment was like the others; earthy colors mingled with blues and yellows that comfortably hugged her form. Oryan could not speak. He felt as if the ground were suddenly gone from beneath his feet. His heart pounded, shouting a thousand words of unspeakable joy. All movement stopped, except hers. All sound died, except the soft splash of the water and her delicate hand breaking its surface. There she was. Celeste was here.

  She turned back from the fountain and brushed the hair from her face. She saw him, and her lips fell open slightly as her chest rose and fell rapidly. Gracefully, she rose to her feet and took a few small steps toward him. He mirrored her motion. Their steps became longer and faster until they stood only inches away from each other. Still, they did not speak but rather let their tear-filled eyes express the emotion that their lips could not. Years of worry faded. The sleepless nights filled with the memories vanished in a heartbeat. They were here, now, together and that was all that mattered.

  Mr. Books

  The sleek black transport slid to a halt underneath the awning in front of the night club. The black window smoothly rolled down and the valet ran to the door in response.

  “Mr. Books!” the boy exclaimed. “We weren’t expecting you. The usual?”

  The man nodded his agreement and then stepped out of the vehicle. He slipped the valet a very large tip as the boy took his place. “Take good care of her,” he said. “She’s my favorite.”

  Here, everyone knew him as the night club owner. That was fine by him. His real identity as Therion, one of Damrich’s Agryphim, wouldn’t mean much to anyone. He’d risen in the ranks of the underworld like most normal people would. Then Damrich had found him and everything changed. He became the most powerful mob figure in the world almost overnight.

  He should be grateful, but as much as he hated following the orders of the bosses, he hated even more being the dog to a boss he’d never seen. He knew Damrich was powerful. He also had influence. Any time Damrich had predicted something, whether social or financial, it had come to pass. If Damrich noted a potential enemy, they were missing soon after. Therion had watched kings, emperors, politicians, and Black Market master minds, fall victim to Damrich—even if no one else knew it. Overthrowing his vast network was difficult enough without adding the fact that the man himself was invisible.

  Therion had to be very cautious making inquiries about Damrich for fear of reprisals. He knew Damrich was linked with certain businesses, both legitimate and not, and so he was following the money from those. Tonight, he hoped, there were a few people here who could pull the ghost into the light.

  He’d owned the club for years and used it as a front for many of the nefarious deals that took place within his criminal empire. He had an office upstairs as well as an interrogation room in the basement. The constant supply of loud music and loud patrons made this an ideal place for both.

  He entered the foyer of the club and began to cut around the patrons still waiting to get past security. When the bouncers saw him, they cleared a path and escorted him in. He wore his signature black suit, complete with black shirt, that was never buttoned at the top, along with neatly pressed slacks. A gold chain hung around his neck.

  Security led him through the maze of dancing bodies and to the back elevator. Colored lights flashed, the bar teeming with people buying alcohol and watching the bartenders put on a performance while pouring drinks.

  In the middle of the dance floor, patrons were removing clothing as the alcohol and drugs convinced them this was a wise course of action. One particularly attractive woman exposed far too much and Books motioned for his escort to see her from his club. He couldn’t afford for this place to be seen as some sort of strip club. Not that he was opposed to it. After all, his brothels and strip clubs made more money and faster, but tended to get closed down or sold when he grew tired of running them or the law got too close. This place, however, was a legitimate establishment. In here, he obeyed the law, enforced the rules, and ran a tight ship. The club was stable and made money every week. For his own protection, he compartmentalized his enterprises with the skill of a surgeon.

  He entered the elevator and the bouncer shut the chain-linked door behind him. “Busy night?” Books asked.

  “Nothin’ we can’t handle, Mr. Books.”

  “Keep ‘em in line, boys,” he said with a wave of his hand as the elevator began its descent with a jolt.

  The basement had no flashing lights, no music, and only a few people. He slid the door open and walked past the rows of shelves with various bottles of different drinks. As he neared the end of one row, he slowed and pulled a bottle from the shelf, checked the label, and continued on. He would need it in a few seconds.

  He turned right and headed past the freezers. At the end of the hall was a heavy, locked door. Books typed a security code into the locking mechanism and slid his palm into it to verify his identity. There was a click as the code and print were accepted, and the door opened slightly.

  The room was mostly concrete and aside from the rail hung from the ceiling, there was nothing to decorate it. Various sizes of steel hooks lined the rail. A quick visual inventory told Balsa whoever was doing the interrogating had brought their tools with them.

  The interrogator kneeled beside the man on the floor with his hands tied behind his back, trying viciously to place something into his mouth as the man kicked and fought in spite of the constant beating he received for doing so.

  The third man sat in one of two metal chairs situated just to the left.

  “What’s the problem here?” asked Books.

  The bruiser stood up from his victim. “He won’t open his mouth! I need to process him right, but I want him to feel it when it happens.”

  Books crossed the floor and stood next to the bound man. He removed the lid from the bottle and handed it to the interrogator who gratefully accepted and choked back a large swig. Books eyed the bleeding man coldly and then crouched beside him. It was hard to find good help these days; much less a strong man who had the brains to handle this kind of thing effectively.

  “You’re doing it wrong,” he said with a huff. Slowly, Books kneeled on the man’s throat. Though the captive still kicked and fou
ght, he could not escape the crushing weight on his neck. Books pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and with it, pinched the man’s nostrils closed. The victim opened his mouth wide, trying desperately to breathe. Books reached his other hand out and the bruiser put a three-inch diameter lead ball in his palm, which he placed carefully in the man’s mouth. He applied small force and made sure it couldn’t be spit out when he removed his grip on the man’s nose. Books leaned back, still keeping the weight on the neck, and signaled for the interrogator to finish the job. The large man lifted his boot and sent it crashing down onto the lead ball. There was a sickening noise as most of the victim’s teeth were violently torn from their place. He tried to scream, but the pressure on his throat and the ball in his mouth made a muffle of the attempt. Books removed the ball with a stiff yank, stood, and cleaned it with his handkerchief, and handed the ball back to the interrogator. He tossed the handkerchief on the victim’s face.

  “Now, I think you can handle the rest. Make sure you get the fingers before you dump him.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Books,” the interrogator said as he rolled the man on his stomach and began the work of removing the rest of the victim’s identity.

  Mr. Books cleaned his own fingers with a corner of a second handkerchief before he dropped it on the floor and sat next to Vick, the man in the chair. Screams, though muffled, still filled the room as the men spoke.

  “You’d think people would get better at this,” said Vick. He had a haggard appearance as one who lived a life hurting others and himself. His skin was as leather; filled with creases and wrinkles as deep as scars.

  “We weren’t much different when we started. It took me a long time before I figured out how to process someone who was still alive.”

  The old man chuckled and coughed. “Yeah, that ball idea was a stroke of genius!”

  “It sure made things a lot faster,” Books responded. He gestured to the victim. “Who is this guy, anyway?”