He depressed the button that summoned the lift. The doors opened upon an unremarkable elevator car. The two stepped inside, and the doors closed with a soft hiss.
They rode down in silence, Bayorn tapping his toe claws on the grimy floor of the elevator car. The door opened on a massive metal cavern. The overhead lights blinked intermittently, and in the flashes Letho could see items of varying size and shape, some covered in tarps, others scattered in glittering piles.
Letho stepped out of the elevator car, jaw agape.
“Bayorn, I think we just found where they keep their loot.”
SEVENTEEN - Saladin
The large chamber was littered with the spoils of numerous raids. It ranged from archaic Eursus to late twenty-first century, but much of it was unrecognizable to Letho’s eye. Laid out in piles that reached the ceiling were baubles, works of art, and military armaments from every epoch of Eursan development; there were even relics that had to have been taken from other places in the galaxy. Some of the weaponry, the “alien” weapons in particular, looked as though they could destroy entire Fulcrum stations with a single trigger pull.
His eye was drawn to a metallic box in the center of the room. Painted olive-drab green, it was marked with technical jargon and surface wear that was typical of military gear that had seen actual service. The top of the box was emblazoned with a serial number in utilitarian yellow, and the words:
OFFICER’S TACTICAL ARMAMENT PACKAGE: Saladin
Letho walked up to the box and gave it a closer inspection. A series of latches and a seam ran down the middle of it, and he pulled the two sides apart. No superhuman strength was needed as the box slid open on casters underneath the frame. Inside, Letho found a military uniform, complete with slight carbon-steel chest and shoulder plating. But it was the sword with the uniform that captivated Letho.
“Bayorn…” he muttered. He could not take his eyes off the beautiful sword.
Bayorn put down the enormous axe that he had been inspecting, and came over to see what Letho had discovered.
The blade was longer than Letho’s arm and crafted of a metal that could only be described as pristine. The blade was roughly the width of his palm, and came to a precise point that looked as though it could puncture even the tightest carbon weave. Under the surface of the blade, lines of translucent blue light crisscrossed and angled down its length, sometimes giving way to circles and dots. The lights seemed to pulse, and it gave Letho the impression that the sword was aware of his presence. He shook off the feeling and continued to examine the sword.
The hilt was quite simple. The handle was wrapped in rich, reddish brown leather. The crossguard and pommel—which was etched into the shape of a falcon’s head—gleamed under the light in burnished gold.
Next to the sword lay a scabbard of matching metal and leather. It, too, was bedecked with metallic trim that swirled and gleamed with pulsing blue light.
It seemed that whoever designed the sword intended to blend elements of the archaic with modern. They had succeeded.
“What is it, do you think?” Letho asked.
“I do not know. Your race’s technology is foreign to me. Obviously it’s a sword…”
“I’m taking it,” Letho said, reaching for the handle.
“Letho, wait!”
Bayorn spoke too late. The moment Letho wrapped his hand around the handle, the pommel came to life. The eyes of the falcon glowed blue, and whirring and clicking sounds begin to emit from the handle itself.
“Saladin prototype officer’s weapon online. Initiating host bonding process.”
“The sword talks!” Letho said.
“Letho, put it down! It’s a trap!”
“I can’t! I can’t move my hand, it’s—”
Two small wires snaked out of the handle between Letho’s fingers and attached themselves to his wrist.
“Ouch!” he yelped, trying to shake the sword from his hand.
“Injecting nanoparticles.”
Letho felt a strange warmth entering his forearm and tracing up his arm, into his shoulder… toward his brain.
“Nanoparticle injection seventy-eight percent complete. Host A.I. synchronization procedure started. Please do not move.”
Letho felt an unknown presence enter his brain. He heard thousands of words pouring in, merging with the rapid-fire panic-talk of his own mind. He saw images by the thousands: faces of men with ornate facial-hair configurations, aerial views of landscapes marked by red and blue X’s, and post-analyses of conflicts. These images flashed through his brain so quickly he could hardly grasp them. And then, as suddenly as it had started, it stopped.
“Good morning, Cole Jarvis. The host synchronization process is complete. I have merged my own consciousness with yours. For verification purposes, please state your rank and current assignment.”
“Uh, Centennial Fulcrum. Maintenance Staff,” Letho said.
He looked at Bayorn, pleading, but Bayorn only shrugged. You are on your own, Bayorn’s expression said.
“Scanning data banks. Centennial Fulcrum: Vessels of unknown origin that arrived on Eursus during civilization’s decline. Purposed as exploration and colonization vessels and launched in the early part of the twenty-first century in response to growing world population and rapid decline of living conditions. Large civilian population, small military force, designated station inspector force responsible for maintaining civic order and repelling external threats. Voice pattern analysis negative. You are not Cole Jarvis. Are you a station inspector?”
“Um, kind of?” he said.
“Kind of. Scanning... biometric scans indicate uncertainty, possible evasion of truth.”
“Look I don’t have time to explain. Mendraga attacked my station and we are on their ship right now, trying to rescue the people they kidnapped!”
“My current location is a combatant ship? This is not military vessel U.S.S. Retribution?”
“No, this is a Mendraga raiding ship,” answered Letho.
“Accepted. You are not Officer Cole Jarvis, my intended host. What is the status of Commander Cole Jarvis?” the sword said.
“I don’t know. Listen, can we have this conversation later?” Letho said, feeling quite absurd upon the realization that he was having a conversation with a talking sword.
“I cannot recalibrate servo systems at this time. Firmware upgrade required.”
“Firmware upgrade. What?” Letho shouted.
Savage hissing caused Letho and Bayorn to snap toward the direction of the noise. Seven Mendraga had appeared just outside the elevator car. Letho’s stomach bottomed out, and a low involuntary moan slipped through contorted lips.
One of them was Sila.
“Sila?” Letho asked.
“Mendraga: scanning. Unknown biological entity.”
“Sila, it’s me. Letho,” he said.
Her skin had taken on a pale, jaundiced hue and her eyes were sunken and bruised. Her beautiful hazel irises were now an icy white that swam in milky yet bloodshot orbs.
The thing that was once Sila cocked her head, her jaw working, teeth clacking. Letho could see the obscene proboscis twitching behind her teeth, stained with someone’s blood. It slithered from between her teeth, spit-slick and pulsating. The other Mendraga began to encircle him, with Sila in the front. Letho was lost, eyes blurring with tears, unaware of his surroundings.
“Letho,” Bayorn said in a low, soft voice. “She is gone,”
“No she isn’t,” Letho shouted. “Sila! It’s me! Letho!”
“Bio-scan results are irregular. Unknown threat level detected. Unable to initiate vision overlay. Firmware update required,” Saladin said.
“Letho. It’s time to let her go. If you do not, we are both going to die.”
“No,” Letho said. “I can still save her.”
“Enemy maneuver analyzed. Chance of survival thirty-five percent. Action required.”
Two Mendraga rushed toward Letho, one from the front and on
e from behind. Letho’s legs pistoned the floor hard enough to leave boot marks, launching him high into the air. He flipped upward and backward, drawing the pistol from its holster, and landed in a crouched position behind the attacking Mendraga. Just as Zedock had instructed, he lined up the sights of the black bear and began to fire. The massive hand cannon barked and spat. He was unprepared for the recoil and the first shot brought the gun up and back, almost crashing into his face.
Letho dropped Saladin to the floor and grasped the gun with both hands. He focused his strength, gripped the gun and pushed forward, locking his elbows. The gun barked again, and this time one of his shots took the Mendraga between the eyes. The other Mendraga drew closer, clawed hands grasping, jaws clacking. Letho lined up his sights, placing the front dot on the Mendraga’s forehead, and fired. The first shot failed to hit the target. He fired again and his bullet connected, causing the Mendraga’s head to disappear in a cloud of red mist.
I have to get better at this.
Letho returned the pistol to his holster and picked up the sword, taking what he assumed was a fighting stance.
“Initiating grav-servos, augmenting blade actuation, deploying sword tactics package,” said Saladin.
Letho felt the sword become light in his hands, felt it twitch in the direction that it wanted to go. Bayorn picked up the axe, his lips rippling with menace around his own pronounced fangs. Strings of spittle and mist exploded from his mouth with every roar. The Mendraga returned the gesture.
“Acquiring target,” Saladin announced.
“Don’t call her that.”
The sword dragged Letho’s arm in Sila’s direction.
“Unable to calibrate sword actuation to new client/host. Firmware update required.”
Saladin was unwieldy in his hands, its movements jerky. Letho felt his arms growing tired from the effort of counteracting the abrupt movements of the sword. He gazed at Sila and took a deep breath, steadying Saladin.
Sila had been given the gift of eternal life by Alastor, but she wouldn’t live long enough to enjoy it. Still a newborn Mendraga, she acted upon instinct alone, for the only part of her brain that currently functioned was the deepest layer, the part sitting right atop her spinal cord, where reptilian impulses like eat and attack originated.
But as Letho drew closer, something, perhaps his scent, triggered a spasm of synaptic activity in her mind. Her frontal cortex lit up like a galaxy, and she saw again with her own eyes and recognized the man before her. She smiled, her eyes clearing, her mouth just beginning to form the first syllable of his name.
Letho saw none of this. His eyes were closed; he allowed Saladin to lead him forward. As the first sound slipped from between her lips, Saladin bit into her skin of her neck and continued on its awful trajectory. Letho did not look down at what he had done. Bayorn’s snarl drew his attention, a welcome distraction from the horror at Letho’s feet. Two Mendraga lay before Bayorn, beheaded, but a third was forcing him back, oozing slobber down over Bayorn’s axe handle. Letho drew his pistol and brought it to firing position. He aimed down the weapon’s iron sights and fired. The Mendraga went limp as his head disappeared from the jaw up. Bayorn righted himself and rushed over to Letho.
“I killed her, Bayorn,” Letho said, tears welling.
“I know,” Bayorn said. “There will be time to mourn her later. Let us go now, and avenge her.”
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Mavus wandered the halls of Alastor’s ship, much like Letho had wandered the ruin of the Centennial Fulcrum’s town center a day before. He found himself lost in a memory of his childhood, and of his twin brother, Cantus.
Cantus, who had the kinder heart. Cantus, whose smile was infectious, drawing forth grins from even the sourest grimace. And now his brother was dead—but not quite so. His spirit was held between the ethereal and the corporeal spaces, trapped in a sarcophagus of metal, glass and wire.
“Cantus, can you hear me?”
Mavus stood feet from the dormant wraith, which had knitted itself together as Cantus Wheatley had regained his strength. The broken canopy glimmered, and the rotten green fumes began to unfurl, cascading down the metal carapace.
“You are Mavus,” it said. “I know you. You are… Dammit, I can’t remember!”
“Cantus, it’s me, your brother…”
“Yes… brother… I remember.”
A great shuddering sob caused the metal husk to vibrate. “Mavus, please leave. I don’t want you to see me this way.”
“I came to let you go,” said Mavus. He tried to cry, but he couldn’t. Alastor had taken that away from him.
“You can’t. It will kill you,” Cantus pleaded.
“I do not care. I think I would like it if we both died together,” Mavus said.
“What about Thresha? She loves you! You can’t leave her.”
“My love died the day they put you in this infernal machine.”
“Alastor used Mendraga archaea to seal me in. He promised me it wouldn’t hurt, that it would be just like being a Mendraga, only I’d be so much more powerful. He lied to me. I’m going crazy in here. I can see the people that I’ve killed. Their faces are in the green mist,” Cantus said.
“Tell me how to break the archaea, Cantus, and I will set you free.”
“You must reach inside. He has bonded my brain to the machine. I can hear it calling to me all the time. You must find it and destroy it. But I warn you, brother, the green mist that holds me prisoner is hungry, and it will feed on you. You will die if you linger too long.”
Is it truly magic, or the Old One’s machines?
In the end, Mavus decided that the distinction between the two didn’t really matter. He shattered the Jolly Roger’s faceplate with the terrible strength imparted to him by Alastor. He slipped his hand into the suit’s helmet and down into the chest plate, disturbing the swirling green mist. He felt it wrapping tightly around his body, sucking vitality from him in waves. His skin contracted and began to burn. He gasped as he felt the skin on his cheek crack wide open, spattering dust and bits of skin like dry parchment into the air.
“You’re almost there Mavus, just a little further. Hurry!”
Mavus felt numb. The green mist was in him, ramming itself up his nose and down into his lungs. The smell of his nasal cavities melting was that of burning garbage and wet dog. He was a man drowning in molten lead, his thoughtless limbs unable to execute the orders his brain issued.
At last Mavus’s hand closed on a small steel box, and there was a shower of sparks as he yanked it out. He pried the lid open with a small pop! Purplish-black energy flashed forth, then disappeared back into the box. Mavus was startled to see that his hands had been burnt away to the wrists; a large portion of his lower torso was gone as well, consumed by the purple explosion. He collapsed in a tattered heap on the metal grating.
He had no hands with which to reach inside and grasp his twice-undead brother’s brain, so he did the only thing he could. He propelled the box upward using the shattered stumps of his forearms, and flung his head forward into it. The purple energy inside chewed away the remaining flesh on his face, causing his eyes to melt in their sockets. But his teeth had not yet gone. With his last remaining strength he bit into the brain, severing it in half with his incisors. Immediately the green mist began to disappear, and the voice of his brother came to him from far away on a gust of winter wind.
“I’ll see you at the place where the light ends, brother,” Cantus said.
Mavus sat back, attempting to close eyelids that no longer existed, and waited for death to take him for a second time.
But death did not come for Mavus. Stricken with grief that he could not feel, his soul broken down to bits of tired dust, he cried out to Death; but Death turned a deaf ear. The Mendraga blood that flowed in his veins prolonged his un-life, attempting to mend his grievous wounds.
He struggled to raise himself to a standing position, but could not, for a large sphere of archaic ener
gy had torn away an enormous chunk of his core. He crawled, dragging himself toward the doorway.
Thresha, he tried to say, but he no longer had any lips. The meat of his throat was dry; all that came out was a sad croak.
“Mavus!” someone shouted.
Mavus could hear the voice, but couldn’t make out the words over the din in his mind. It was as if he had been pulled under in a sea of white noise.
Crimson Jim sauntered out of the shadows.
“Look what you’ve done, you son of a bitch. You killed your own brother!”
There was no concern for Cantus Wheatley in his voice, only concern for himself. The Jolly Roger’s protective might was gone. Mavus detected genuine fear in Jim’s voice, but also a healthy portion of rage rattling beneath the dulcet tone of his midrange baritone.
“I told you, Mavus. I told you I’d kill you. You really mucked it up this time.”
Jim slipped over to the pile of Mavus, a shadow with glinting steel blades. Mavus had just enough time to rise to his knees before he felt pressure and friction, but no pain. Jim stabbed downward, forcing blades deep into the meat of Mavus’s shoulders. This time there was blood: a sloppy fount of black sap.
Old Death had heard his prayer at last. Death had chosen Crimson Jim as his emissary, or maybe Mavus had chosen Jim himself. In the end it did not matter, for Jim was eager to serve.
“Thank you, Jim,” he whispered in a brittle rasp.
“What did you say to me?”
“I forgive you…” Mavus was fading away. Without his eyes, he wasn’t sure if darkness or light awaited him.
“Shut up!”
The final stroke came from Jim’s left-hand blade. He wrenched it from Mavus’s shoulder and sawed it back and forth across Mavus’s throat.
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Thresha had seen Jim slip out moments earlier. Fear was growing inside her; it shouldn’t have taken Mavus that long to dispatch a few colonists, and she had a feeling that other things were on his mind. And who knew what Jim was up to? Then, in a flash of intuition, it came to her: the Jolly Roger. Her heart sank to the pit of her stomach as she realized what Mavus was doing, and what Jim’s part in it might be.
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