Vance could almost feel the radiation in the room, emanating from the canisters. "What are those?"
"Bombs. Nuclear fusion bombs." Visht's eyes grew wide as he scanned over the contents of the room. "He lied."
"Who lied? About what?"
"These bombs. Tirlmayn told all of us that he wouldn't use these because of the potential dangers to the warbringers on the battlefield. He promised that he would get rid of them."
Vance crossed his arms. "Well, it doesn't look he's gotten around to that yet, mate."
Visht stepped up to the first row, gliding his fingers across the cold metal. "They're labeled with destinations. Targets. He's planning on detonating these. Northern Elysia, Darkshot City, Coal, the list goes on. Dear space, no. Not this. Star-World Tau and Star-World Omicron." Visht placed his hand on the side of the silver cylinder as a pained grunt escaped from lips. "He's planning to bomb our own people."
"What's on Tau and Omicron?"
"Star-World Tau the birthing and breeding center. It's where the warbringer and korvishi orphanages are. Omicron is . . . no."
"What's on Omicron?" Vance insisted.
"The hospitals. Civilian hospitals. I . . . I'm sorry. I need a minute."
"Take your time. How's that greater good looking now, mate?"
Visht quietly walked down the rows of bombs, reading the tags on the sides for their intended destinations. Occasionally, he would stop and shake his head or make tiny hissing sounds in the back of his throat. When he reached the four large ones at the back behind a steel mesh fence, he sank to his knees. "Vance, come here."
"What is it?"
"Read the label on these four."
Vance squinted in the dim light as he looked inside the fence. "Star-World Zero Alpha."
"Tirlmayn doesn't want to eliminate humanity. He wants to eliminate everyone." Tears slid down the young warbringer's cheeks. "I fought for this. I was trained and brainwashed for this! For genocide. For the destruction of our own people. For the slaughter of innocent civilians and children. This is what my life has been about. I'm a murderer."
"No, you're not."
"I am!"
Vance stood in front of him. He took Visht's circular horns in his hands and whispered to him, holding him steady. "You listen to me, kid. You have no hand in what happens because of the government over you. Tirlmayn is a tyrant. He's a bloodthirsty, twisted man who wants to watch the universe burn. You were born into this, but that doesn't mean you have to go along with it. If this fighting between Azimandian increases into a full-blow civil war, these bombs are going to be used on your people, our people, far sooner than anyone wants. You can make this right. I'm not saying we can save everyone, or anyone for that matter, but we can try. We can start by me revealing myself to my father as the real Vance Trainor and assuaging some of this fighting. I need your help to make that happen. First, we have to get to my husband and ensure he's alive. Then I will find Tirlmayn and show him I'm still alive and I didn't start all of this. You are my witness to that. Will you help me save the ones we can?"
Visht sobbed as he stood and wrapped his arms around Vance. "I will. Save them, Vance. We have to save them."
"I will try my best."
Chapter 5
Splintered boxes and shipping crates with rusted nails scraped along Slayven's legs as he ran down the back alleys of the oldest parts of Star-World Zero Alpha. His bare feet were numb, slapping against the frozen pavement as he forced his burning legs to carry him farther. Sirens and gunfire filled the night behind him. Korvishi men and women shouted at him from the second and third stories of the crumbling brick apartment buildings. Some threw empty tin cans and buckets of dirty dishwater at him while other called for help.
He made it to the last two blocks of the poverty-stricken residential district when the shutters of a third-story window opened ahead of him. Before he had the chance to change course, the shattering of glass and the roar of blue and white flames filled the alley. Slayven clenched his eyes tightly as he continued running through the intense heat and the stench of gasoline. It could have only been one thing. A Molotov cocktail.
Slayven screamed as he dove out of the fire and rolled down a steep embankment to a landfill below. He came to a stop on his stomach in a shallow sludge pit next to an old refrigerator. That's when the searing pain hit him. Slayven pushed himself out of the green viscous sludge and turned over. He took a minute to breathe before daring to look at his legs. His left leg was primarily untouched, but his right was black and red with rough charred burns where his pants had been melted away below the knee. All he could do was groan in pan while the gritty green sludge dripped from his hair and slid down his face.
Shouting came from the other side of the vast mountains of garbage in the landfill. Slayven pushed up with his hands, but then collapsed back into the puddle, splashing the rancid liquid over himself again. There as no way he could put weight on his legs. But he was not about to stay there an give up and let them catch him. There would be no trial, no second chance, no opportunity to beg for his life. It would be a bullet to the back of his head or a slow brutal humiliating death. With his energy waning, Slayven started to crawl.
Gasping through his agony, he dragged his useless legs over broken glass, bent metal, and gnarled plastic that cut into his bare chest and stomach. He heard his name being called, which only made him more desperate to find a place to hide.
"Slayven! It's him. Hurry up, Sandra. He's injured."
Slayven glanced back behind him to see the two people running down the pile of discarded objects and decomposing trash. He curled up as his primal instincts took over. Baring his teeth, he hissed at them. His body tensed and he spit through his frantic growling.
A male voice impatiently spoke to someone else. "Sandra, what's wrong with him? Is he rabid?"
A soft female joined him in a thick accent. "No, hermano. Azimandians revert back to their feral instincts when they feel threatened or they are injured. It's a defensive mechanism. Slayven, we are amigos. Friends. Um . . . I'm trying to remember some Azimandian. Friends, Slayven. Alm'sa. We are alm'sa. Allies."
Slayven bit at the hand that came near his face. Through his rage and adrenaline-fogged vision, he could barely make out figures and shadows, much less any facial details to recognize whoever these people were.
The male human retracted his hand. "Hey! He bit me! Am I gonna catch some alien disease or something?"
"Did he break the skin?" The female asked.
"Yeah. I'm bleeding."
"You're dead. No, I'm joking. Try talking to him. He knows you."
Slayven scooted away with foam dripping from the corners of his mouth. He gnashed his teeth as the man came close again.
"Slayven, calm down. We have to get you into our ship so we can leave before the warbringers find you. They're distracted right now because the Azimandian Underground and the Red Sand Rebels sabotaged the primary generators. Slayven, it's me, Sawyer. Sawyer Noriega. The man with the green mohawk? I know you probably don't like me, but we're here to help you now."
"Say it in Azimandian. Lisliss sivten.
The man timidly reached out his hand again. "Lisliss sivten. Slayven, lisliss sivten. We're here to help."
Hearing his native language spoken so calmly and patiently by caring voices brought Slayven out of the fight or flight response. His primal feral instincts slowed, allowing his eyesight to clear and for the world around him to become more than moving threats. Slayven breathed through his flaring nostrils and slid down into the sludge trench.
"That's it." Sawyer reached out and placed his tan hand on the Azimandian's shoulder. "There. You're safe."
The tan-skinned woman with soft curly black hair in jeans and suspenders with a black 'R' tattooed on her forehead snapped her fingers. "We're not safe yet. We gotta get him to the ship with the others. He's so thin. Carry him, Sawyer. Vámanos. Let's get moving."
* * *
Dallis's four golden eyes sparkled i
n the tiny orange flame from the cigarette lighter. He held it up in his blue hand so the other two men in the tiny square room could come sit by the edge of his rickety cot. He waited until his fellow Biromian with the green-beaded yellow hair and the mute human cyborg with the black sensors on his face came over before he addressed them. "Neon, how is Derek doing?"
Neon patted the cyborg's bare olive-tinted shoulder. "He's good. He knows sign language. Biromian sign language."
"Odd."
"Not really. He told me he had a Biromian friend when he was kept as a slave by Valmorons. He's been mute since the Valmorons removed his vocal chords as a child. He's feeling better, but he hates these working conditions."
Dallis leaned his eight-foot-tall frame back against the dingy concrete wall, making the stained straw mattress creak on the rusted metal frame. "We all hate these conditions, but Tirlmayn doesn't care. Ask Derek if he can make a candle or something."
Neon's dark blue hands moved rapidly as he signed the question to the cyborg. He nodded as he signed back. "He says he can do better than that."
Derek's sat down. His face panels blinked as his body vibrated. He held out his hands below the dancing light of a green hologram to catch the four parts that materialized out of the air. He locked the pieces into place then held out an already glowing lantern. The fluorescent light filled the room where two other cots, a toilet, and a pile of MREs were the only objects in the room. A sturdy door with an electronic lock kept the three of them locked inside for the night.
"Nice work, Derek." Dallis took the lantern and examined it. "It's noting fancy, but it's better than my lighter. So, what do you gentlemen think is going on with the power? While you two were finishing up making that last fusion bomb, I heard some explosions from above-ground."
Neon sat on the edge of the cot and stretched his arms above his head, the glass beads clanking in his braids. "Who cares? It's not like they'll give us the day off tomorrow because we're in the dark. I've got to get some sleep."
The cyborg ripped open a brown MRE pouch and squeezed some powdery mashed potatoes into his mouth before the lights on his sensor panels shut off and he fell to the floor on his side. He stayed there, motionless.
"See? Even Derek is exhausted. They've been making him materialize plutonium and Vitalanum all day. It takes a a lot out of him. You and I are on cargo duty for the rest of the week. They got a shipment of copper in today."
"Oh, hell. Someone needs to tell these Azimandians that Biromians aren't pack mules. I swear they would put saddles on us and ride us around if they thought of it. Don't give them any ideas."
Neon pulled down the waist of his grey canvas pants to delicately touch the swollen welt. "They actually hit me with a damn riding crop earlier when I wasn't pulling that cart of spare parts fast enough. A riding crop. They didn't like it when I told them I wasn't a nilfu."
"We are laborers, beasts of burden, to them. Like mules. I would have gladly taken a riding crop instead of the bit."
"A bit?"
"And bridle." Dallis rubbed the corners of his mouth where his dark lips were rubbed raw. "They made me wear a bit that was strapped around my head because I cursed at them. Apparently they can understand just enough Biromian to know I insulted them. Figures."
"Well, they eat humans, so this isn't much of a surprise. You know what they believe. Anyone other than their special race isn't capable of thinking. I wonder how they're treating Vance and Lucas. Oh, space. What if they ate Lucas?"
"They wouldn't eat Lucas. Lucas was a master sergeant in the Elysian army. They would torture him and try to extract military secrets. Ask me which one I would pick? Make me into a nice roast and be done with it."
Neon picked at the remaining packets from Derek's MRE. "I'm so hungry. I can't eat another one of these packaged meals."
"Well, I'm not eating Derek, so you're out of options, Neon."
"You know what I miss more than food?"
Dallis could think of a million things. "Hmm?"
"Females."
"Oh, space, yes." Dallis chuckled. "You and me both. There was a female Azimandian who came down here to deliver a sandwich to one of the wardens. She smelled like sugar and a field of sunflowers. Then I remembered she was Azimandian and I almost didn't care. I haven't gone this long without female attention since . . . I don't even know. When I was out on missions or hauling cargo, I still made stops in remote space colonies to find some Biromian women."
"You ever mate with anyone other than a Biromian?"
"Nope. You?"
"Yeah. Found me a human girl once. Only once. Never again."
"How was it?" Dallis asked.
"It was great . . . until she died."
She died? "What did you do to her?"
"Some races just aren't . . . compatible. She started bleeding really bad. I tried to get her to the hospital, but the humans on that moon base had never seen a Biromian before and they freaked out. It started a riot and I got shot at. Lost my money along the way as I was running. Then I had to sleep in some rundown basement I broke into where I got bit by a rat. That got infected. Turned out there was mold growing in the basement and I contracted a nasty respiratory virus and it caused me to sneeze all night long. The police found me and tried to arrest me, but I fought them. I got shot in the foot and accidentally knocked over a candle which caught the entire apartment building on fire. Then I tried to do the right thing and hobble around on my injured foot to save people, but an elderly woman hit me in the head with a rolling pin and knocked me down the stairs. I ran outside where it was really, really cold and I hid in a topiary. Turns out it was covered in stinging nettles and briar bushes. As I was scratching and bleeding from those, I heard thunder and the entire sky opened up with the worst rainstorm I had ever seen. Soaked and battered, I took a flag from outside someone's house to use to cover my head to help keep my identity as an alien hidden. I went to get back on my ship, but it was surrounded by police and government agents. I had to wait in the woods until they gave up trying to break through my locks and I sneaked on board. That's when I found out I was out of fuel cores. I had to go around that moon base begging for money and doing favors for people just so I could get enough fuel to go home. Once I was home on Birom, I had to get a series of rabies shots because of that stupid rat, the doctors had to break my nose to remove a mountain of mold spores from that nasty basement, and I was on crutches for nearly a month after they removed the bullet from my foot."
"Wow, Neon."
Neon tossed the packages into the corner, giving up on eating for the night. "That is why I never mate outside my race. I've heard of some Biromians doing it and everything working out. Good for them. It's nothing against humans, it's just not for me."
"I'm sure all of that was just one big awful coincidence not necessarily brought about because you mated with her."
Neon rolled his head over to look at him, his eyes cold and expressionless. "I would rather not tempt fate. I'm going to bed."
"Night, bud." Dallis removed his thick canvas work shirt and tossed it on the floor before falling back on his cot. He watched the shadows as Neon got into bed. "Hey, Neon?"
"Yeah?"
"We're gonna die down here, aren't we?" Dallis asked.
"Probably."
"If that's true, is there anything you wish you would have done as a free man?"
"Sure. I wish I had . . . made a family. A family like yours. A big one, with multiple litters of children. Boys and girls I could have taught how to fly ships or cook . . . anything. I always wanted children, but I was so busy working with you and Powder."
"Right, children." Dallis drew the names of some of his children into the layer of fine dust that clung to the wall beside his cot. "Want to know my wish? That I hadn't left my children on Birom. That I would have been involved enough in their lives to bring all fifty-three of them with me. Hell, even my oldest if I had been able to save his life so many years ago. Now they're gone, slaughtered by the warlord
we're forced to work for now." He took a shaky breath. "I could have saved them. I should have saved them."
"You had no way of knowing that Azimandia would invade Birom. No one did. You can't carry that guilt, Dallis. You were a wonderful father to your children. You worked so hard to give them what they had. And what the government of Birom did to your oldest? To Vandal? That wasn't your fault either. He got caught up in human religion. You tried to stop it, knowing what they could do to him. That guilt should not fall on your shoulders."
"I know you're right, I just-" Dallis stopped talked as voices filled the hallway outside the door to their room.
The door's bolts were unlocked as the emergency power generators roared to life in the deeper layers of the Star-World. A warbringer barked orders at someone who was roughly pushed into the room, the person's body covered in a long white cloak and their face hidden below the large hood. The hooded prisoner fell to their knees when the Azimandian kicked them in the back. "Stay here, human. Maybe these Biromians will teach you some humility." The green-horned warbringer motioned to the trembling human below the cloak. "Have fun. Do what you will with the human. It's a worthless one, weak and incapable of physical labor, so I brought it down here as a toy for you. I know you two Biromians are starving for some entertainment."
The cloaked prisoner was left there, shaking violently and sniffling underneath the mass of white fabric. A soft voice from inside pleaded with them. "Please don't hurt me. Please. I won't cause any trouble. I won't eat your food. You can do whatever you want with me. Just don't kill me. Please!"
Chapter 6
"Wake up!"
Tobias yelped when the cold water hit his skin, soaking through his clothes. Drawing a tense breath, he looked around the normal-looking Elysian apartment. He was on his knees on the carpeted living room floor with his arms secured by his head on the back of a metal chair that had been bolted to the floor.
"Tobias Desruisseaux, the recently reinstated Director of the Department of Peace." Brooke pushed her glasses up her nose as she strutted into the living room with an all-knowing smug look on her face. "Fluent in English, French, and Latin. Blood type: B positive. Married once, now a widower. Recently lost his one and only daughter. Weight: 180. Height: 6 feet. Blond hair, blue eyes. Age: 43. What does this all tell you?"
The Genesis Sequence Books 6-10 Page 18