Death Drop (The D-Evolution)

by Sean Allen

  Her timing was perfect and as his dagger drifted by, she hooked her left hand up and caught the inside of his forearm. She pulled back toward her while smashing the heel of her right hand down on his wrist. Popping sounds erupted from his hand and he let out a devilish howl as he dropped the weapon. The fluidity of her movement was like a mortal dance—a violent ballet. Dezmara slid her right hand from the thief’s arm and caught the knife by the handle as it fell, tip down, toward the floor.

  She pulled the boy’s limb over her head, forcing his fingers to open in front of her. In a flash, the steely blade was buried up to its small hilt in the meat of his palm. Before he could cry out again, Dezmara wrenched his injured arm behind his back, clamped a gloved hand over his bony mouth, and pulled him so close he could feel the heat of her breath escaping from the kranos. There was no possible way anyone could make out what was going on: the bazaar was too congested. If a spectator did happen to glance them out of the corner of their eye, they would have looked like lovers or old friends embracing one another.

  “You’ll never pick another pocket with that hand,” she said. The electronic voice of the veil program sounded cruel and cold, and that was fine with Dezmara. “Now tell me, my little would-be murderer, who would’ve gotten my purse at the end of the day if you’d actually killed me?” She slipped her hand from his trembling lips so he could answer.

  “Fuck you—you bastard—you goddam freak! I ain’t sayin’ shit—AAAARRRHH!” The thief squealed as Dezmara twisted the blade in his hand. “P-p-portmaster!”

  “Why am I not surprised. Now you and your three buddies are going to set up shop.”

  He looked at her with seething hatred and then in pain and confusion as she torqued the knife handle again. His face shook vigorously in submission and she continued.

  “Stand at the north end of the square. Make a sign that says, ‘We have stolen several items today. Describe what you are missing and we will gladly return your valuables.’”

  “You’re outta your fuckin’ mind, man! The portmaster’ll kill us so you can just kiss my”

  Dezmara snatched the knife from the thief’s bloody hand and pressed the warm, slick metal against his throat. “Then you have a choice to make. Die now, or do as I say and beg for your life with your master. The choice is yours, but I promise you—your life is worth far more to him than it is to me.” She pressed on the knife until his skin split beneath it and a small stream of green blood glided silently along its edge before pooling against the hilt and falling to the ground in large drops. “If I press any harder, this face will be the last you ever see.”

  The thief stood silent; shaking in Dezmara’s deadly grasp.

  “Choose!” she demanded.

  The thief nodded his head emphatically and Dezmara eased the knife away from his throat. He pressed the fingers and thumb of his left hand over the large, bleeding hole in his right as she wiped the blade clean on his shirt.

  “I’m gonna walk back out of The Boneyard in fifteen minutes and cross the plaza; I better see you and your friends when I pass by.”

  He grimaced as he clutched his wound but did not answer.

  “And one more thing. If I see or hear that you’ve hurt anyone that comes looking for their stuff, I’ll finish what I started.”

  The thief looked up from his hand but she was gone. He looked around him and in the direction of the old statue of that pitiful weakling, Gamuun, but he didn’t see the masked psycho that put a hole in his hand and damn near cut his throat. The sonofabitch had vanished into the crowd.

  “Too bad you ain’t comin’ back from the yard alive,” he said as he spat on the dirty stones at his feet before he, too, slipped into the sea of people and disappeared.

  ***

  The orange numbers ticked down against the green background in the kranos as Dezmara maneuvered easily through the melee and toward The Boneyard. Twenty-five meters. Twenty meters. Ten meters. Five. Zero. She put the sole of her right boot on the step in front of her and gazed up as she tapped the controls on the helmet. The staircase was instantly outlined in orange light as the Ghost’s computer crunched the requested information and sent it back to the kranos.

  “Fifty-six steps, twelve meters high,” she said as she read the data on the screen. She paused and looked beyond the top step at the gruesome entrance that hovered there. The doorway to her destination was a cave; perfectly excavated between both sides of King Gamuun’s carved rib cage so that it gaped open in the center of his abdomen. She looked at the statue’s legs to either side of her and couldn’t help but notice how much the staircase itself resembled an undulating river of Gamuun’s insides spilling from the yawning hole torn in his body down to the floor. A foreboding feeling crept into her mind again as she leapt onto the staircase. She dashed forward, legs burning, taking the steps in twos and threes, trying to subdue the fear with her effort. The numbers on the display inside the kranos flashed rapidly as they descended until she flew from the last step and was swallowed by the opening below the fallen king’s chest.

  The darkness of the tunnel lasted only a few seconds, and Dezmara passed beyond its curved walls and found herself standing at the edge of another plaza with a domed ceiling. Instead of the dull roar of the teeming market she had just left, the enclosure echoed with the harmony of chorused voices singing in a language Dezmara wasn’t familiar with. The room was similarly shaped to the bazaar outside, but the walls ran vertically from the floor for quite some distance before arching abruptly, and it was smaller and more intricately decorated. The roof came together in a patchwork of curved pockets with ornately carved borders. Dezmara adjusted the vision controls on the kranos to get a better look at the beautiful detail work. Large rectangular expanses of colored glass, masterfully melded to depict various scenes of the plight of the Trinitons, encircled the room and ran from floor to ceiling. A brilliant light shone from behind the translucent panels and painted the room with their somber depictions in a riot of color. The warmth and the richness from the panes betrayed their origins and the cold, gray chamber itself, and Dezmara felt torn in two by the conflict. Her mood shifted to the macabre as her eyes followed the particles of dust that danced through the air in the colorful streaks of light and floated silently to the ground.

  The chamber floor was a large semi-circle that covered two thousand square feet. A large path of smooth, bare stone skirted the center of the room along the curved walls of colorful glass and disappeared into two caverns on the back wall. Dezmara would have scarcely noticed the openings if not for the assistance of the Ghost’s mainframe and her technologically advanced head-wear. She was standing frozen in place, her eyes fixed on the ground at the center of the room. Now she knew why it was called The Boneyard.

  Chapter 24: Kings and Pawns

  The dull gray light that fell across Colonel Jerrel Abalias’ face was barely noticeable against his white skin, and it gave no warmth. He cracked his eyes and moaned as he rolled to his back and touched the hard, rough floor under him with his hands. He waited for a hint of heat to tingle into his fingers, but nothing happened; the room was as cold as he was. His head was pounding and he felt like he had just woken from a bad nightmare he couldn’t remember when a distant voice called to him in the dark.

  “The beds aren’t bad,” the voice rumbled. “Kind of remind me of home. I wonder what the food’s like.”

  Abalias pushed himself up into a sitting position and turned in the direction of the voice. With his back firmly rested on the wall behind him, he began the universal ritual for speeding clear vision back to blurry eyes: blinking wildly and scrunching his brow up and down while rubbing his eyelids with his palms. His sight slowly returned, and as he strained to see across the room, he could just make out the hazy figure of Sergeant Graale sitting against the opposite wall with his knees drawn up to his chest.

  “Hey, Sarge,” Abalias croaked through a dry, scratchy throat as he continued his scan of the enclosure. He could now see clearly enough t
o tell they were in a small, square holding cell made of solid rock. The little chamber was completely barren and the only feature that broke the tedium was three rows of rectangular cut-outs in the cell door. The nine panels were filled with a sullen light that barely passed through the meters-thick portal.

  “Damn,” Abalias sighed, “I guess we’re not getting out of here by force.”

  “Nope,” Graale replied soberly.

  Abalias jerked his head back slightly on his shoulders like something just struck him. “Can’t you just…” Abalias held his hands up and shook them in his best ‘crumble the walls around us’ enactment.

  “I’m afraid the rocks here don’t speak to me,” Graale said gravely.

  Abalias paused and then leaned forward in the dark and shook his head in amazement. “I can’t believe it—you’re a Guardian! I mean, I should’ve put it together—with the name of your gun and all—but, wow—an honest to god Guardian!”

  “I’m Garnukdeen,” Graale said plainly, “but some sailor from a strange planet, eons ago, found us and the closest he could get to saying it in his language was Guardian. So, yes, I’m a Guardian.”

  “But you can control rocks—I mean, I thought you were kidding back in the shipyard when you said you could collapse the whole mine and send those bastards to hell—and the vent shaft; you weren’t kidding!”

  “I can speak to some rocks and they help me out once in a while if I ask nice.” Graale grinned modestly.

  “So the legends are true,” Abalias said with an air of wonder that countered his usually bland, military style of conversation. “I mean, you guys live in the rings around planets and um, well”

  “Crush passing ships?” Graale said.

  “I suppose that’s what the stories imply, isn’t it?” said Abalias after an awkward pause.

  Graale chuckled at the colonel’s embarrassment and felt a small twinge of pride knowing that he could stir the boyish imagination of someone as rigid and efficient as Abalias. “It’s okay, Colonel. And to answer your question, not all of us live in rings around planets—not all rings are inhabitable—some live on-world, in the open air, or even under the sea. As for the last part, we’re not really different than any other race in the universe. Some cause trouble—mostly teenagers, if you ask me—for whatever reason, and sadly, that includes the occasional bashing of unsuspecting ships, I’m afraid.”

  “Geez,” Abalias whispered, “I wish I would’ve known back at the base. I might’ve taken you up on your offer…” The colonel fell silent and dropped his gaze to the floor as he relived the last half of the battle at the Dissension base in his mind. When he had finished, he lifted his head and stared at Graale with the commanding blue eyes of Colonel Jerrel J. Abalias the soldier—the awestruck boy had vanished. “What happened to the Guardians?”

  Graale shifted his dark eyes to the columns of ashen light for a moment and then fixed them back on the colonel.

  “Why are you the only one that’s come forward to fight?” Abalias respected Graale’s power and he appreciated everything Graale had done in the shipyard for him and the rest of the Dissenters who had escaped, but he wanted answers and his tone was as hard and cold as metal.

  “It’s not easy to explain,” Graale said with hesitation.

  “I’m afraid I need it explained—now, Sergeant.” Abalias wasn’t going to back down and Graale knew it. He sighed heavily and his big shoulders rose up and then sank with the burden.

  “My people have long faded into legend. We live solitary lives and believe we’re best forgotten. The Durax never knew anything about us. Their ships drifted by and never once did they think to search for life out in the rings; they didn’t have any idea we existed and we wanted to keep it that way. We feared what they might do through us—through our powers.”

  “What the hell do you mean ‘what they might do?’ They’d do the same damn thing they’ve been doing for as long as anyone can remember: murder innocent people, torture and enslave entire worlds! We need soldiers like you—who can do what you do—who have the balls to fight so we can win this goddam war!”

  “You don’t understand,” Graale said firmly.

  “Bullshit, I don’t! You’re lot sound like a bunch of cowardly”

  “YOU DON’T GET IT!” Graale roared and Abalias flinched at the sudden outburst. “There are Guardian elders with powers a thousand times greater than what you saw in the shipyard! They can shift the crust of entire planets—the land would crack open and spit fire, mountains would crumble to dust, seas would boil and rage and send waves thousands of meters high to erase anything in their path, poisonous fumes would fill the air, and ash would rain down from the skies to choke out all light, all life in a matter of minutes! With our power, the Durax could destroy worlds in an instant—not hundreds or thousands of years like they do now, but minutes. There would be no chance of survival, no one to escape and join the Dissension to fight for their world, only absolute and total annihilation!” Graale had risen to his feet, and he was hulking over Abalias, breathing hard with anger. “You see why we didn’t come to fight now?”

  Abalias sat frozen in pure shock and amazement at Graale’s vivid description, and it took a while for his tactical mind to kick back into gear. “I understand,” he said somberly as he nodded his head. “But we have the Serum.” Abalias countered like a chess master who had just forced a sacrifice move by his opponent. But Graale was just as cunning a strategist and every bit as clever as the colonel.

  “You want to know if I’m the spy,” Graale said with an air of comprehension.

  Abalias’ eyes registered an inkling of surprise at how quickly the sergeant figured out what he was getting at. He reasoned that there was no possible way for someone like Graale to be inoculated against the mind-spike of the Durax, and a man with the sergeant’s power wouldn’t risk open contact with them without insurance. The fact that Graale knew there was a spy made Abalias uncomfortable, and the colonel could think of only one assurance that would convince a Guardian to join the Dissension without the protection of the Serum: the sergeant wouldn’t need it if he was already working for the Durax. Abalias’ emotions were running wild, but he kept a straight face and stared blankly back.

  “C’mon, Colonel! It’s obvious we have a leak after what happened on the ridge with Talfus and Malo and then the Berzerkers—you said so yourself! I saw the look on your face back in the infirmary when you asked if we’d all had the Serum—something was wrong, something didn’t fit. Am I right?”

  Abalias conceded to Graale’s talented display of observation and deductive reasoning and a smirk of admiration managed to melt the icy look on his face for an instant before freezing over once more. “Impressive, Sergeant.”

  “And you’re wondering how something like me,” Graale rapped his heavy knuckles on his rocky forearm, “could possibly be injected, right?”

  “Well?” Abalias said flatly and folded his arms across his chest.

  “Turns out, we’re not entirely indestructible,” said Graale as he tapped his finger just below his right eye.

  Abalias didn’t get it at first and confusion replaced his hard look. Graale lowered his hand and moved closer, leaning down and putting his face inches away from the colonel’s. He stared at the Dissension officer with a friendly look and kind eyes, and after an uncomfortable few moments, the colonel finally understood.

  Abalias didn’t spend as much time as he used to on the front lines, and he regretted he couldn’t fight alongside his soldiers more often. He and Graale had never done battle together before the Berzerker attack on the Sitiri 9 mine base, and he admittedly didn’t know much about him. The Dissension army wasn’t huge, but it wasn’t small either, and Abalias relied on orders and the chain of command to get things done. He didn’t have time to memorize the service record or medical history of each man. Of course, he heard the stories that circulated through the army about a soldier’s feats, but he knew how hard it was to separate fact from fiction. D
uring his recent dealings with Graale, he saw what everyone else saw: an indestructible soldier. But now that he was face to face with the man, he could see that the sergeant’s eyes, except for the color, were very much like his own and they glistened with fluid over dark, soft tissue.

  “You let them stick a needle…in your eye?”

  Graale nodded his head slowly but remained silent.

  “Hmm,” Abalias said sounding only half-satisfied. “If you’re not a spy, and you can be given the Serum, why not send for more Guardians? You must have family, friends, an army—someone, anyone who’ll answer the call!”

  “You know damn well why not, Colonel. There’s not enough Serum to go around—the batches sent by the Mewlatai are small and even if there was enough…” Graale arched his brow at Abalais.

  “If there was enough…then what?”

  “We have no idea if the rumors are true—if the Serum is failing.”

  “There must be someone else like you who’ll fight.”

  “Our king has ordered that none shall come forward until the One has returned and reported it safe. The king is the most powerful Guardian in the history of our race—no one would dare go against his orders.”

  “And you’re the One,” Abalias said.

  “Yes…and not to make this any worse, but before this whole mess with Malo, Talfus, and the rogue Mewlatai, I was ready to send word—a call for the Guardians to join the Dissension.” Graale hung his head in regret and his heavy feet scraped loudly across the floor as he shuffled back to his side of the cell.