Asher finished, standing to follow Tarango as he walked away from the table. Both of them dropped off their trays before leaving the mess hall. Tarango led Asher down yet another barren hallway of polished concrete. This one was only slightly different from the others due to the large, ornate wooden doors resting open at the end of it.
At last, a recognizable landmark, Asher thought to himself.
“The barracks are just through those double doors down that way,” Tarango turned toward Asher, pointing off down the hallway at another set of heavy wooden doors. “You should be in Room 17, which means you should take a left after the doors and then a right at some point. The officers’ quarters are in a different direction, so I’m not entirely sure. We'll have training orders in for you soon. You can just hang out in your quarters for now. See you around, Blackthorn.”
Tarango walked away, leaving Asher standing there.
Now alone, he continued past the doors and proceeded down the hallway, following Tarango’s directions until he found himself standing in front of a simple white door with a large, black #17 painted upon it.
Asher paused before pushing his way through the door into his new home. He was surprised to find a generous-sized room, though he was disappointed to see it was constructed of the same barren concrete as the hallways and void of any decoration. Unlike the hall, the space contained several pieces of furniture, four desks, a few chairs, a flat-screen television hanging on the wall, and two sets of steel-framed bunk beds.
“Hello,” said Asher. He found a small bespectacled young man sitting on one of the bottom bunks, his hair dark and spiky and his complexion pale. Asher thought it rather generous to call him a man, as he appeared younger than he was.
The spiky-haired man leaned over in his seat, staring at a spider scurrying across the floor.
“Are you my bunkmate?” asked Asher, feeling that it was a stupid question.
“Maybe,” said the man, taking his attention off the spider, looking at Asher quizzically through his heavy lenses. “They said Davis would be replaced sometime soon. What’s your name?”
“I’m Asher Blackthorn.”
“Hello, Asher.” The small man rose from the bed and extended his hand to shake. “My name’s Milo. Milo Harkman.”
“Nice to meet you, Milo.” Asher shook the man’s child-like hand. “Suppose I might as well sit down.” He pulled a chair out from under one of the desks and turned it toward Milo as he took a seat. Asher took another quick look at the beds, identifying the one above Milo’s as his. It was unmade, and a pile of clean clothes and bedding sat stacked up at the end of it.
“So what happened to Davis, your last roommate?” Asher asked cautiously, trying to start a conversation with Milo. ”He didn’t…” he trailed off, his voice a whisper, a sick, nauseous feeling suddenly washing over him.
“He was killed.” Milo looked up at him from his seat on the bed, his eyes locking onto Asher’s with a kind of sheer bewilderment. “Why else would the Legion recruit a replacement?”
Chapter VIII
Slave to the Scalpel
Anoura and Desmond had seated themselves in white leather armchairs, a heavily polished, exquisitely carved wooden table separating them. Luther and Mara shared a white leather couch situated against the wall, adjacent to Anoura and Desmond.
“Who does this jet belong to, Desmond?” asked Anoura.
The noise and turbulence from the plane’s takeoff died away.
The jet was unlike any Anoura had ever seen. Genuine gold composed the door handles and levers. The light fixtures were crystal, and all of the wooden surfaces were painstakingly hand-carved. Anoura hadn’t looked, but she wouldn’t be surprised if she found a diamond-encrusted toilet in the restroom. Regardless, whoever had purchased the plane had extravagant and gaudy tastes.
“I cannot say precisely.” Desmond shrugged. “Well, that is, I cannot say who purchased it. Officially, it belongs to The Surgeon, though it’s improbable that he would ever invest much money in interior design. Judging from appearances alone, it would seem the purchase was made by Mr. Dade, though I find such a scenario unlikely given the poor relationship between The Surgeon and Mr. Dade.”
“More than likely, it’s just a gift from Mr. Dade to The Master, who then loaned it to The Surgeon,” said Luther, tired of Desmond’s rambling theories. “I doubt Mr. Dade would be pleased if he were to find out The Surgeon was using his jet. The Master may have intended it to be a lesson to him about wasting money on unnecessary luxuries.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s the more likely explanation,” said Desmond, hesitant to acknowledge the truth in Luther’s words.
A low, soft moan suddenly proceeded from the back of the plane, breaking the silence. One of the children was due for another dose of sedation. They had placed each of them inside a large pet carrier, making them easier to manage throughout the flight.
“Stewardess, it seems as though the specimens are due for another dose of sedative,” said Desmond as he pulled a set of needles from his suit pocket. “Would you be so kind as to take care of them for us, please?”
“Yes, sir,” said the flight attendant as she took the needles from his outstretched hand. She walked past Anoura as she went to tend to the children.
“Exactly why does The Surgeon seek an audience with all of us, Desmond?” asked Anoura.
“As with many of our organization’s affairs, information is only given out on a need-to-know basis.” Desmond dismissed her question with a wave of his hand. “Even someone as high ranking as myself must be kept in the dark about some things. I really have no idea, though I do have some theories.” He let out a low yawn, disinterested in the conversation with Anoura.
Desmond’s eyes darted toward the flight attendant as an idea popped into his head. “Oh, how rude of me. I forgot to offer any of you a drink. I can’t imagine you would be thirsty, Anoura, as you nearly drank your driver dry such a short time ago. Would you like a drink, Luther? Mara?”
Anoura doubted Desmond cared about anyone’s thirst but his own, and he was likely just finding an excuse to access The Surgeon’s exclusive stock. She was annoyed at his presumption that she was not thirsty. Luckily, he happened to be correct in this instance, which kept her from starting a fight that might have ended in a physical altercation.
“It has been a while since we’ve had something to drink.” Mara nodded toward Luther.
“Yes, I believe we will have something, Desmond,” Luther confirmed.
“I believe we could possibly have entrees as well, if anyone is interested,” Desmond offered.
“The drink alone will be just fine,” said Mara.
“Very well.” Desmond turned toward the flight attendant, waiting for her to close the second child’s carrier. “Excuse me, miss. We would like a bottle of your finest drink. Something young and robust, but not too metallic in flavor.”
“I will have it right out, sir,” said the flight attendant. She walked past them to disappear behind the curtain at the front of the plane.
She reappeared moments later, pushing a full serving cart up to the side of their table. She removed a bottle full of dark red, viscous fluid and three glass chalices, two of which she placed on top of the cart. The flight attendant then poured the red liquid into the single glass in her hand, filling it halfway up before handing it to Desmond. She went to fill the other two glasses, placing them on the table for Luther and Mara.
“May I see the bottle stewardess?” asked Desmond, stopping the flight attendant before she placed the bottle back on the cart.
“Of course, sir.” The attendant handed the bottle over to him.
“Oh, this is quite nice,” said Desmond as he scrutinized the label. “Taken from a young female fairly recently. I would presume she was a virgin, though I don’t believe it affects the taste substantially. O positive is a little pedestrian to some, but it’s one of my favorites.”
“So, you are certain that this meeting with The
Surgeon has nothing to do with Icarus, Desmond?” Anoura grew tired of his pompous babble.
“I think it is safe to assume The Surgeon neither knows nor cares about Icarus’s demise, my dear.” Desmond smiled, finding the situation amusing. “Though I suppose, given his rivalry with Mr. Dade, The Surgeon might want to offer you a promotion for doing away with Icarus. Even if he cared about Mr. Dade’s son, information doesn’t travel that fast. Are you worried, Anoura?” Desmond smirked, pleased with himself. “Mr. Dade is a man of significant means, willing to employ unsavory tactics to achieve his end goals, especially when those goals involve retribution.”
“Desmond, you know I would be lying if I told you I wasn’t at least a little worried.” Anoura hated to admit her fears. “We’re all well aware of what Mr. Dade can do. He carries too much weight within our organization to be ignored.”
She frowned, finding Desmond looking out the airplane window into a still dark but steadily brightening sky. He turned his head back toward her, acting surprised to find her sitting there.
“How many of these special missions have you carried out for The Surgeon, Anoura?” Desmond asked. “Yes, I know I’m the one responsible for ensuring assignments are properly executed, but I stopped keeping count a long time ago.”
“There have been so many that I’ve lost count as well.” Anoura paused to think. “I’m certain it’s been more than a dozen.”
“And all of these missions have been completed successfully?”
“Absolutely!” Anoura snapped, losing patience with Desmond’s presumptive attitude. She glanced over at Luther and Mara, finding similar looks of irritation scrawled across their faces.
“Even you know all missions under my direction are handled with the utmost care and discretion!” Anoura continued to rage. “I accept nothing short of perfection from those under my command. This incident with Icarus means nothing. He was forced on us, Desmond. It was his fault for not following orders. I haven’t made a single mistake since I’ve started running missions per The Surgeon’s special requests. That’s why he asked for me in the first place!”
“You have no reason to become upset, my dear.” Desmond attempted to look oblivious to her rantings. “The only reason I ask about your success rate is that it now may be likely that The Surgeon would like to transfer you to his jurisdiction to work directly under him.”
“And why would he do that?” Anoura caught her breath, her anger quenched. “I mean, I can see why he might want a highly competent procurement specialist, but why even mess with a transfer? I was hoping it might eventually lead to a promotion where I would take up your vacated position after you were promoted yourself.”
“Yes, that is normally how it works, but we are quickly becoming a rather bloated organization, regardless of the low turning rate.” Desmond swirled the blood around in his glass. “It just happens when many of your members have vastly extended lifespans. It would be logical for me to gain a position as one of the bosses over food supply and trafficking so that you could gain my position as underboss. Unfortunately, I do not see that happening anytime in the near future. All our boss positions are filled as they are. I know it’s not ideal, and The Surgeon is, admittedly, quite strange and eccentric, but his research is so important I would assume any work done for him would be more satisfying than merely procuring food. The pay would be better as well, so it’s nearly as good as a promotion, or at least I believe it would be.”
“Yes, I suppose that is true, though I would be lying to you if I didn’t say I prefer the promotion.” Anoura made a pathetic attempt at a smile.
“One thing is for certain.” Desmond took a sip of blood from his glass. “If Mr. Dade is angered over the loss of his son, and I think we can all agree he will be, you will be much safer under The Surgeon than you will be with anyone else.
“And why do you believe that, Desmond?” Luther cut in, gulping blood from his glass. ”I don’t know what special protection The Surgeon has, but he will need it should Mr. Dade decide to come after him. He’s a very wealthy man, the foremost of our financial backers, and with all that money comes power. He might even be second only to The Master. If he wants someone disposed of, he will have them disposed of. It’s only a matter of time. The best protection The Surgeon offers lies in putting a considerable amount of distance between Mr. Dade and us. Rest assured, though, he will eventually come for anyone he holds responsible for his son’s death.”
Luther went silent, giving Desmond a threatening look for dramatic effect.
Anoura smirked, amused by Desmond’s frightened reaction to Luther. It was nice to see him put in his place. Despite her front, she retained a healthy fear of Mr. Dade and the things he could do to those who displeased him.
“The Surgeon is one of The Master’s favorites, even above Mr. Dade for all his money,” said Desmond, his panic quickly vanishing. “If he were to launch an attack against The Surgeon or attempt an assassination on him or his assistants, The Master would likely come to The Surgeon’s defense or deal directly with Mr. Dade himself. When Mr. Dade is no longer seen as an asset, The Master will have him eliminated and his funds acquisitioned, regardless of circumstance.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s likely enough,” said Anoura, continuing Luther’s psychological assault. “But if The Surgeon was allocated such protection, then it obviously only applies to himself and those who work for him. Everything you have said only leads to the conclusion that Luther, Mara, and myself will be protected, not you. How do you know Mr. Dade won’t just dispose of you for his satisfaction? You’re the one responsible for deciding who goes on specific missions, after all. Who’s to say he won’t just go after you?”
“Just because you have been so successful carrying out The Surgeon’s special requests doesn’t mean he wants to add you to his number!” Desmond yelled. The fear had returned to his eyes.
Anoura had finally struck a nerve. She gazed down at the floor, a smile on her face. She knew she wasn’t the only one dreading Mr. Dade’s wrath.
“All of this is still highly hypothetical. Everything we have discussed thus far has yet to be proven true!”
Desmond abruptly stopped his rant, realizing he was about to fly completely off the handle. His attention shifted away from Anoura and back to the window as he took several deep breaths.
The sun hung on the horizon now, and the dark of night had slowly faded to a dismal grey.
Desmond might have several abhorrent qualities, but Anoura knew he was not an overly aggressive man. He was someone who liked to keep his emotions in check. She was certain he retained a low level of fear of her, preferring to keep her at a distance whenever possible. Given Desmond’s less than impressive physique, she had no doubt who would win should things ever escalate.
“My dear, it would be very uncharacteristic of Mr. Dade to let anyone who has transgressed against him to escape punishment,” said Desmond nearly a minute later. He gave Anoura a calm but cold look. “Even if he comes for me first, he will be led straight to you. You know I tend to have very loose lips when threatened. As the matter at hand involves the death of his only son, it is possible that Mr. Dade would willfully penetrate The Surgeon’s defenses. After all, The Master’s favor only goes so far.”
Desmond fell silent again, this time staring intently at his glass, contemplating another sip.
Anoura glanced over at the couch against the wall, finding Luther leaned back against it, looking content and unworried. Mara’s body language suggested she was of the opposite inclination, as she leaned forward and anxiously cradling her glass in both hands.
“Your transfer is only hypothetical at this point, Anoura,” said Desmond, making direct eye contact. “There will be very little to stop Mr. Dade from laying hands on all of us without the protection of a more powerful benefactor.”
“I guess we’ll just have to see what happens.” A look of defiance crossed Anoura’s face as she attempted to hide her anxiety.
“I sup
pose we will.” Desmond was unwilling to allow her the last word.
The red light rays of the rising sun suddenly appeared over the horizon. The four sitting within the jet’s cabin closed their eyes, the searing light all but blinding them.
“I really would love to carry on our conversation,” said Desmond, his eyes remaining sealed. “Unfortunately, daylight is upon us. I anticipate we will have another long night ahead of us, and I know we all could benefit from some rest. Stewardess, would you please tend to the windows?”
“Yes, sir.” The blinds made a quick swooshing sound as she pulled them closed. “That’s all of them, sir,” she said from the back of the cabin after she completed the task.
“Ah,” said Desmond as all four passengers opened their eyes.
“Much better.” Anoura glared at him, irritated by his tendency to speak for everyone.
“Stewardess.” Desmond stopped the flight attendant on her way back toward the cockpit. “Would you please bring out some pillows and blankets?”
“As you wish, sir.” The flight attendant continued past them to disappear behind the dividing curtain once again.
She returned moments later, carrying a large bundle of embroidered pillows and blankets, which looked highly expensive.
“Here you are, sir.” The flight attendant distributed the requested items.
“Thank you very much, my dear.” Desmond gave her a fanged smile.
Anoura rolled her eyes when Desmond wasn’t looking, nearly yanking a pillow out of the flight attendant’s hand. She’d long since grown tired of his insincere pleasantries. She retreated to one of the other couches against the wall of the jet and pulled her blanket over her head as she waited for the lights running down the aisle to go out.
“It looks as though we have all made ourselves comfortable, stewardess,” said Desmond, moving to a couch somewhere away from Anoura. “We would appreciate it if you would be so kind as to turn off the lights.”
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