“Master, I have fed,” he lied.
“Your concern for the Eursans is touching, my son. But you must know that their sacrifice is necessary for our ascension. I cannot have one of my soldiers reeling from hunger on the field of battle.”
Alastor looked up at him now, stared deeply into his eyes. Mavus saw something there he had never seen before: a genuine concern that comes from the transcendent bond between father and son.
You will never take the place of my birth father! his mind shouted.
The room began to shake at first, then spin, and he felt the ground rising as he dropped to his knees, his stupid, tired limbs no longer able to support him. Alastor was calling to him, but to Mavus the sound was a tin can caught up in a whirlwind a thousand kilometers away. He felt Alastor’s arms wrap around his shoulders, carrying him, cradling him across his lap as he brought them both to the couch.
“Mavus, you stubborn fool! If you will not drink from the Eursans, then you will drink from me.”
He took the ancient axe from the table and slashed it across his wrist. Black, sap-thick blood began to ooze from his wound.
With his free hand he forced Mavus’s jaw open, and waited for the slow trickle to break the liquid tension that held the black ichor in place.
Mavus was in the throes of a spectacular fit; his arms assailed shadow-toothed monsters that only he could see, and his feet kicked out a thunderous tattoo. He could feel the sweet ichor seeping onto his lips, and he convulsed. He resisted, though every cell in his body was thrumming toward that sweet fount of life. He tried to turn his head, but Alastor’s hand would not allow it.
Mavus tasted ambrosia on his tongue, and felt absolute power slipping down into his veins. The obscene organ slid from behind Mavus’s lips and attached its barbs to Alastor’s forearm. Their pulses became one, and he could feel Alastor’s vitality, long-suffering and eternal.
This is what it is like to be a god, he thought.
Mavus gave up his struggle, and became still.
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Later that evening Alastor called his officers to his quarters. Jim and Thresha were both surprised to see Mavus there already. Thresha couldn’t look away from the glimmer that had returned to Mavus’s eyes, his skin no longer drawn to the point of cracking open. It was as if, even for the span of a heartbeat, the man she loved had returned.
Mavus noticed her gaze and dismissed it with a sniff as he sat down next to Alastor. They were gathered at the round dining table, a sturdy oak relic from Alastor’s past. Runes had been carefully hewn into the ancient wood, and one could feel a sense of warmth emanating from the tabletop. Alastor seemed eager to draw the meeting to order, but Crimson Jim was out of his seat, eyeing a curved steel dagger with a broad blade set in a display case on the wall. Thresha tapped him on the shoulder, and he turned to favor them all with the complacent look of one who is unaware of the expected behavior in such meetings. He took his seat, locking his eyes on Mavus, a taunting grin on his face.
“My sons and daughters, too long has our Master suffered in his reduced state, this mortal shell that he was trapped in so long ago by his betrayers. But now, at last, we have that which we need to return the Master to his true form,” Alastor said, removing a vial from his pocket.
Inside was a gold liquid that seemed to roil and effuse its own light.
“The blood of a Tarsi Elder, the last of the pure bloodline,” he whispered, gazing at the precious liquid through rapt, half-lidded eyes.
Crimson Jim licked his lips, twitching a little.
“Tonight we will sacrifice ten Eursans, and combine their blood with the pure blood of the Elder Tarsi. In addition, all of you must make a blood sacrifice to the Master, and together we will wake him from his long slumber. Once our Father has risen, and fed to his fill, he will lead us to a new Kingdom where we will rule alongside Him for all time.”
The smile of perfect, assured victory spread across Alastor’s face. The grin spread to Jim’s face, who had no problem imagining himself as a god, sitting atop a blood-spattered throne, Eursans writhing in the abattoir beneath him.
Thresha attempted to smile, but she could think only of Mavus, who once again was burning holes in the floor with icy blue eyes. She had been so hopeful when she’d caught a fleeting glimpse of the Mavus that once was.
Alastor surveyed his progeny, and he could swear that his still heart, murdered in cruel irony by the gift of eternal life, began to beat with pride. All of the work was done. It was time to reap what he, along with his children, had sown.
SIXTEEN – Breach Redux
“Deacon, turn on the speakers, I’d like to play something,” Letho said, conjuring his uCom.
Deacon eyed the enormous control panel of the recon ship, replete with hundreds of clustered blinking lights, dials and toggle switches, then back to Letho, his head tilted to the side.
“You want to play music from your uCom right now?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Letho responded. “Don’t give me that look, just play it already. It sets the tone.”
“All right. You’re the boss.” Deacon flipped a few switches and the opening wind trills and strings of Vigner’s “Flight of the Warrior Maidens” filled the cabin.
“This music doesn’t even have any synthesized harmonia. All acoustic Eursan instruments. Pathetic,” said Deacon, shaking his head. “Cool cartoon though. Kill the wabbit. I totally get it. Good choice, Letho!” Deacon said.
“Just shut up and drive,” said Letho, frowning.
All playful banter was cast aside as Deacon went to work. He manipulated the control panel, flipping toggles, checking readouts with confident speed and familiarity. Twin metallic orbs on either side of his chair began to glow and lifted up from their holders as if by magic or magnets. Deacon placed his forearms into troughs in the chair’s armrests, lining his hands up with the glowing orbs. The ship lurched into motion as he manipulated the orbs. It banked upward and to the left. Letho felt his stomach churn, and for a moment he was certain they were going to create a new tragedy by plowing into the bulbous front end of the Centennial Fulcrum. The ship slipped over the top of the Centennial Fulcrum with mere meters to spare.
“Showoff,” Letho said through clenched teeth, fearing that breakfast might be coming back up to visit.
“Relax, Letho. I got this,” Deacon said with a slight grin, his eyes fixed on the heads-up display. “Tracker is still reading. Guess they don’t have hull sweepers. Amateurs,” he muttered as though he were speaking directly to the ship’s flight deck.
Deacon flipped a couple of switches. “Hey, I’m getting readouts from Fulcrum uComs. Probably should have disabled those. Guess they’ve never had anyone come back to pick up the kids after the sleepover. Maybe they’re still alive!”
Letho sat back, his stomach still churning, letting the music wash over him and bolster his courage. He was terrified, but the sense of doing what was right seemed to meld itself with the fear, tempering its edge. He closed his eyes and pictured his enemy. If he was able to take one of them out, he would consider the mission a success.
The oily voice of his copilot attempted to raise a plea of reconsideration.
It’s not too late to abort this foolish mission.
Who do you think you are, anyway?
You’re just going to get yourself killed, along with these people who, for some unknown reason, are following you.
Letho pushed the copilot to the back of his mind. This mission was his, he claimed complete ownership, and it was good enough. Deep within him he felt his new strength, coiled up inside him like an animal; he felt pure adrenaline pulsing through his veins as he imagined what he could do in his new body. No doubt the Mendragas would be happy to test his might.
Within minutes, they were in range, and the wicked, shark-like form of the Mendraga ship appeared on Deacon’s display.
“Wow, look at the size of that thing. Did it get bigger since the last time I saw it?” Deacon said.
“And what is going on with the thrusters on that thing? I’ve never seen anything like that before.”
“Not the time, Deacon. Just get us close and we’ll roll out the welcome mat,” Letho said.
Letho began to load charges into the launchers, just as Deacon had showed him. Deacon manipulated the guidance spheres and edged his ship alongside the enemy’s.
“All right, we’re in position,” Deacon announced. “It’s weird, they haven’t even pinged us yet. Wonder what they’re doing in there?”
Letho flipped the protective cover off the launch button and depressed it. He watched as the small explosive packages spun out into space and attached themselves to the hull of the enemy ship. When Deacon gave him a nod, Letho pressed the detonate button. Each of the explosive packets disappeared in a brief flash of energy, and the freed pieces of the enemy hull began to fly away. Seconds after the detonation, a rectangular, accordion-like protrusion pistoned out from Deacon’s ship, fusing itself to the hull of the enemy ship.
“We’re locked on and one hundred percent sealed. Still no ping from the enemy ship. They don’t even know we’re here!” shouted Deacon.
“Let’s get it on!” shouted Letho.
Not quite the battle cry he had imagined when this scenario had played out in his mind, but it would have to do.
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Letho, Deacon, and the Tarsi entered a long corridor, flanked by holding cells that were wide open. The interior of the ship was typical, composed of railings, catwalks, and locking doors that were different from those of the Fulcrum station only in that they looked much, much older. Here and there Letho saw markings and additions to the working structure of the ship that were unfamiliar to him. Wall placards displayed foreign pictograms. Computer screens blinked in an alien set of characters.
“Those look like Tarsi markings, but not quite. A different dialect, maybe,” said Maka.
The Tarsi exchanged worried glances.
“Remain watchful, brothers. There is great evil on this ship,” Bayorn said.
Signs that the prisoners had been held here were everywhere. There were scattered belongings in the cells and at their feet. Letho grimaced as he stepped past a stuffed bear. Where were the prisoners?
“Something is very, very wrong here,” Letho said.
“Yes,” Bayorn replied.
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Alastor knelt upon his pedestal, and spoke.
“Master, the time is at hand.”
The viewing window of the Master’s capsule was already open. Behind Alastor, Thresha gasped, and Crimson Jim stared on in awe. Mavus was lost, staring at the steel grating beneath his boots.
They had never laid eyes on their true father, the last of the pure bloodline, an ancient being that had seen the end of his own home world and had witnessed the birth of theirs.
Also with them were a handful of fresh recruits: citizens of the Fulcrum station who had received the gift. These newly created Mendraga gazed on from the shadowy corners of the room, uncaring, unknowing. They looked upon the Master and his progeny with listless eyes.
“Come, my Father, we have prepared the ritual for you. You will bathe in the life-giving salve, and we shall join our blood with yours in the ancient way, just as you have done for so many of your children.”
“It is well,” said the voice of the Master, from everywhere but also nowhere.
Alastor rose, and motioned for his lieutenants to follow him. Two by two they formed a line on either side of the capsule. Alastor entered a keystroke on a wall panel, and below them a chamber opened. The recessed chamber in the floor contained a medium-sized well, which was filled to the brim with Eursan blood.
“We offer our own life with thanks that it may speed your return,” said Alastor. In chorus, all repeated the words. Lifting their arms, they each took a ceremonial blade and made deep incisions along the lengths of their inner forearms. Desecrated black blood began to spill into the pool below them.
Alastor jerked and withdrew his forearm. He placed his hand to his head and a look of concern appeared upon his face.
“I sense intruders. Slave bears, and... the boy… Letho. He is here!”
“You!” he snarled, pointing at the handful of new recruits. “Kill them all! The ritual cannot be interrupted!”
Mavus’s head snapped up, a person waking from a lucid nightmare.
“Master, I would ask your leave to assist the new recruits,” he said.
“Your part is done here, but you would miss the rebirth of a god? This is most irregular,” Alastor said.
“Yes master, I know my request is unusual,” Mavus began, “but I want to bring this boy, Letho, to the Master myself. What a great gift to lay it his feet,” he said at last.
There was a tense moment, but Alastor granted his wish, and Mavus sped off to catch up with the new recruits.
“The ritual continues,” Alastor said, producing the vial of the Elder’s blood and emptying it into the pool below. “Now, help me lower his body.”
Alastor entered a few more keystrokes in the wall panel, and a seam appeared along the length of the plasteel capsule. There was a hiss as the seal was broken, and crypt stink filled the air. Working together, they grasped the ebony block that held the remains of the old one and lowered it into the pool. It sank to the bottom, swallowed whole in a sea of blood.
They watched, transfixed, as the blood began to recede. Soon the block was visible again, and it began to disintegrate, revealing a hideous pulsating cocoon. It rose into the air, throbbing with ancient life, and then the shape began to change again. The rippling surface began to take shape: organs, arteries, and the obscene squiggle of intestinal matter.
Needle-like black nails began to pierce the fleshy walls of the cocoon, followed by bone-white fingers. As the arms pried their way out, Thresha fought back a wave of simultaneous revulsion and awe as she caught a glimpse of the Master’s head crowning, sliding up and outward from the unnatural womb.
The monstrosity seemed to open and then fold inward on itself, like a flower blooming in reverse. Thresha realized that they had been looking at their Master with his insides out. Almost as soon as the transformation had begun, it was over. He stood before them, his skin slick with clear mucus.
His arms were long and sinewy, as were his hands and fingers, which were webbed, and ended in sharp obsidian claws. His face elongated into a blunt snout, his mouth enormous. His fangs were pronounced—extending two or three centimeters past his other teeth—translucent, and hollow, like the hypodermic injectors a snake uses to deliver its poison. He had no hair on his pointed skull, and his face was a comic, twisted imitation of a man-beast. His eyes were cold and pitch-black. It was no wonder that he was sometimes called The Dragon.
“My children. You restored me. Too long have I withered in the prison of my own body. You have my eternal gratitude,” said the Old One, standing in glistening splendor.
Alastor fell at his Master’s feet, enveloping them with his hands, placing his forehead on Abraxas’s midfoot. Crimson Jim and Thresha both went to their knees, staring up at their progenitor.
“Alastor, do not grovel so. You have proven your worth a hundredfold. Rise, and take your rightful place at my side.”
Alastor did rise, his face transfigured with joy.
“And who are these?” the Lord Father asked, gesturing to Alastor’s kneeling lieutenants.
“That one is Thresha, and the other is Crimson Jim.”
At the mention of his name, Jim looked up and flashed his smile. “Pleased to meetcha, Lord Father,” he said.
“It is an honor, Lord Father,” Thresha said, her eyes still downcast.
“Will you not look upon the countenance of your Father, sweet one?” the Dragon asked.
Thresha found it jarring to hear words of kindness coming from such a cruel, twisted visage. “No, it’s just… this is all very overwhelming.”
“Ah, I understand. In time you will come to love me as
your father, and I shall love you as my own daughter.” He smiled through his sinister fangs.
“Yes, of course, Lord Father,” she murmured.
“Please, address me as Lord Abraxas,” the Old One said.
“As you wish, Lord Abraxas,” Thresha answered, her thoughts reaching out to Mavus.
She could not find him, but a sense of dread filled her bosom. She had to get away and find him before it was too late.
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Letho and the Tarsi had made their way to the main hallway that ran the length of the ship. At the end of the long hallway was the ship’s blunted but conical front end.
“This is probably where they stage their incursions,” Deacon said. “BOOM! They crash into the target ship, lock on with some kind of mechanism like the hull breacher from my ship, and then make their move from the room that is no doubt on the other side of this door.”
“Do you think the Jolly Roger is in there?” Letho asked.
“That’s where I’d put him,” Deacon said. “If I was an evil Mendraga warlord.”
“Good point. Let’s not go in there,” Letho said. “We should split up. Bayorn, you come with me. Maka, take the other Tarsi and search the level above. We’ll search the level below. Just try not to wake up the horrible tank monster, okay?”
Maka nodded, and they went their separate ways.
Letho continued along the catwalk and came to a lift. He favored Bayorn with a glance, and Bayorn shrugged his wide shoulders.
“Come on Bayorn, you’re the leader now. Should we go down?”
“This is your mission. I am here in support of you, Letho.”
“All right then, down it is,” Letho said.
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