“Master, may I be excused? I am worried about Mavus.”
“Yes, my dear. But first, there is something I want you to see,” Alastor said.
He entered another keystroke combination into the wall pad, and a nearby door opened. Inside were the frightened citizens they had taken from the Centennial Fulcrum.
“Master, I have one more gift for you,” Alastor said, gesturing to the people in the holding cell.
“Alastor, words cannot describe the gratitude,” said the Lord Father, tinges of unfettered lust undeniable in his voice. He flew at the citizens with a speed that could only be described as teleportation. He fell upon them, drinking to slake a thirst that was thousands of years old. Thresha turned away, unable to stomach the horror. Alastor watched, enrapt.
“You may go now, Thresha. If you meet this Letho Ferron, bring him to the Master.”
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
“Okay, so where do we go now?” Letho asked.
“We need to find Maka, and together we will go to Alastor. We will bring an end to this.”
Bayorn’s voice rumbled with primal vigor; he was in the throes of bloodlust. Letho’s voice, by contrast, was flat, broken. Bayorn looked at Letho with deep concern. They both needed to be fully functional to survive what was to come.
They met up with the group of Tarsi led by Maka in the main corridor. Maka and his comrades were struggling to beat back a pack of Mendraga.
“Letho, we need to—” said Bayorn, but a sudden burst of Letho surged right past him, ruffling his fur.
Letho charged into the center of the scuffle, knocking Maka aside just as Mendraga claws swooped down in a bid to rid him of his good eye. Letho rammed his blade forward, his momentum causing the sword to plunge into the Mendraga’s chest. He swung right, off balance from the wild swing of the sword, tossing the Mendraga high. It crashed into an overhead beam, shattering its skull.
Letho cast aside the sword, charging into the throng of Mendraga with clenched fists. The Mendraga encircled him, eager to oblige. But these fledgling Mendraga were clumsy, slow, and dimwitted.
This is too easy, Letho thought.
He felt a rush of adrenaline course through his body, and he reveled in the sensation, until the memory of Sila returned. He channeled the anger and heartbreak into searing hatred. Hatred for the unnatural creatures, the freaks that Alastor had brought into his life. They would feel retribution. He would drink their blood. Bathe the walls in it.
He saw Alastor’s face on the Mendraga all around him. One charged him in a blind rush. Letho stepped aside, gripping the creature’s hair. With a roar he brought the creature down hard, smashing it face first into the metal grating beneath his feet. A dull, throbbing red haze descended on him, and he saw nothing but the redness. He could feel it burning in his arms and chest, he could taste it and smell it— a metallic scent that filled his nostrils.
One of the bears muttered a short spurt of Tarsi that brought Letho back to reality. The Tarsi were staring at him, eyes wide. Bayorn looked as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t bring himself to break the silence.
They’re afraid of me, Letho thought.
He looked down at his hands. They were covered in black blood. He wiped his forehead. More blood. Black blood was everywhere. Dripping from the ceiling. Spattered on the walls.
A shadow made its presence known. It was the female Mendraga that Letho had seen during the initial attack on the Fulcrum. There was a moment of uncertainty; Letho was taken aback by her presence.
Letho was too stunned to move. He stood in the midst of the carnage he had wrought, chest heaving, fists clenched. The female Mendraga favored Letho with a confused glance not too dissimilar to the way the Tarsi had looked at him.
Such green eyes, he thought.
Bayorn was shouting something, and the Tarsi were moving forward to circle her. Letho found himself unable to move, and for a moment he feared that she was using some sort of enchantment that rendered him immobile.
Letho knew that she could be at his throat in the blink of an eye, but for some reason she stayed her hand. She, too, looked uncertain as her eyes darted between the group of intruders and the long hall leading to the front end of the ship. Then she was gone, quickened by the unnatural speed of her race.
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Thresha knew she was too late before she arrived.
She turned her gaze toward Crimson Jim, who stood above Mavus with blades in hand, each of them dripping the black pearls of Mavus’s blood onto the floor.
“Mavus, NO!” shouted Thresha, just as Mavus’s limp body sank to the floor.
Inexpressible emotion filled her body. As she looked upon the vacant glaze that settled over Mavus’s eyes, the truth of all that she had sacrificed struck her. Thresha had seen glimpses of this truth throughout the course of her new existence, but never before had it been so crystalline, so final.
“He got what he deserved, Thresha. He was a traitor. He killed his own brother.”
Thresha said nothing. She was possessed with a red desire to tear Jim’s head from his shoulders so that he couldn’t smile that god-awful grin anymore. She could see now, through the cold perspective of an outsider, that Jim had divorced himself from any semblance of his former nature. Turning that critical eye inward on herself, she felt that perhaps hers was all but lost as well.
No, she thought. I am nothing like him.
She rushed to envelop Mavus in her arms.
Jim stepped aside, laughing. “Fool. Your care for others will be your undoing.”
Cradling Mavus, Thresha searched for signs of consciousness. Her insides turned as she looked upon the ruined landscape of his once-handsome face. Mavus, who had hugged her closer to his body than any other. Mavus, whose smell had reminded her of home and her father. His eyes were gone, his face burned to the bone.
Jim shook his head and snorted at her. “Weakness.”
He ran the blades across his pant leg, cleaning them. He placed them back in their sheaths, keeping his hands on the handles. Then he spat in Mavus’s and Thresha’s direction.
He turned to leave, but before he did, he looked back at Thresha once more. His homicidal mask slipped for a moment, and she saw a brief flash of emotion. Regret? Contempt? No—it was the drawn expression of a man who is exhausted from perpetuating a pattern of behavior, but is altogether unable to turn away from it.
“I have to go now, Thresha. Places to go, people to murder. You know how the story goes.”
As he sauntered toward the doorway, Thresha suppressed the urge to sink her teeth deep into his leg.
EIGHTEEN - Conflagration
The Tarsi began to argue, waving their arms wildly. Some believed that the prisoners were being held in the same chamber as the Jolly Roger, while others thought that they should find Alastor and bring retribution directly to him.
Letho was unable to contribute to the discussion. His brain was lost in a numbing fog not unlike the withdrawal he had experienced during his first days with the Tarsi. He wasn’t quite certain that his feelings for Sila had matured into the rather frightening concept known as love, but the pain in his chest was real, and the numbness that now dulled his senses and will was also undeniable.
Letho looked at Bayorn in the center of his Tarsi brethren. The new Elder. What would his advice be? Then a black thought wormed its way into his brain. It was Bayorn’s fault. No—the fault of the Tarsi race as a whole. If the Tarsi had never come, would this have happened?
This series of thoughts led down many strange and dark pathways that Letho didn’t have time to ponder. In the end, he simply felt ashamed that he had looked on his Tarsi brothers with contempt in the first place. Though Letho found it frustrating, he knew Bayorn’s pragmatic assessment was right: there would be time to mourn Sila. And this was not the time.
An explosion of rent metal and a shower of sparks put a halt to his metaphysical ruminations. Through the cloud of flotsam, a bladed demon appeared. He spun to
ward the closest Tarsi, bringing him down easily in a barrage of wicked-fast knife strikes. The Tarsi crumpled to the floor, and before the next even realized that his brood-mate had fallen, Crimson Jim had thrust himself forward, planting his palms, knives to the side, in the center of the bear’s solar plexus. As the Tarsi lurched back, off balance, Jim was already surging upward, sinking his knives deep into the soft area between the Tarsi’s neck and jawbone.
Maka roared with anger and charged. Jim laughed at the bear’s trundling gait, nimbly flipped upward over the lumbering beast, and planted both feet in the base of Maka’s spine, catapulting him forward off his feet, grinding his face into the grating below. Jim crouched low on Maka’s back, raising his blades to deal the killing blow.
“MAKA!” Bayorn shouted. He lumbered forward, quicker than Maka, but still moving with that awkward, tank-like run that made Letho picture some sort of steam-powered automaton sheathed in a bearskin.
“Wait, Bayorn, don’t!” Letho shouted.
Bayorn swung the axe forward, and Crimson Jim leapt aside easily, peals of mocking laughter erupting from his mouth and reverberating off the metallic surfaces all around. Jim danced and cavorted, mocking the slowness of Bayorn’s axe swings.
“Come on, slave bear, can’t you move any faster than that?” Jim goaded.
Letho felt his anger rise, hot and sick inside of him, but he dared not intercede. To do so would disgrace Bayorn in front of his brood-mates.
Bayorn swung again, and this time the infernal jester slipped forward, stomping hard on the long axe handle, shattering it. Bayorn staggered back, eyeing the splintered handle with mingled confusion and shock. Jim leapt forward, sinking his blades into Bayorn’s belly. Bayorn roared in pain and slapped his paws onto Jim’s shoulders. Jim’s grin melted into a contortion of pain as Bayorn pushed forward, raking his claws downward and leaving deep rivulets in the Mendraga’s naked chest.
Jim staggered back, cursing, his blades slipping from the bear’s belly. Bayorn lumbered forward again, his great claws whipping at Jim’s face like a cat-o’-nine-tails, and gouging flesh from his chest.
“Wait, stop!” Jim wailed, collapsing on the floor. “No more, please, you are killing me! YOU—GIANT—FURRY—IDIOT!”
Then Jim was up, laughing again. He began to dance around Bayorn in a mad, mocking circle, pointing to his chest and arms, where Letho saw that the ragged wounds on his chest were already beginning to heal. Crimson Jim’s leg blurred as he brought his leg up, crashing his knee into Bayorn’s groin. The bear folded, crumpling to the ground.
“You stupid animal!” shouted Jim, bent over at the waist, his spittle glistening as it misted above Bayorn’s rolling eyes. His hands moved like twin vipers as he flicked his knives into the air. The blades spun through the air until he caught them above his head. He brought the blades down, knuckles bone-white as he delivered the killing stroke.
But Letho’s blade interrupted, skewering both of Jim’s forearms, pinning his wrists together, and causing him to drop the blades. Letho spun to the right as he tried to withdraw his blade, causing Jim to tumble to the floor. The hilt of the un-calibrated sword, still a burden to wield, slipped from Letho’s hands.
Jim was up almost as soon as he was down, staring in confusion at the blade that still skewered his forearms. He pulled his arms apart, causing the sword to slice through the meat of his arms. It clattered to the floor, and by the time it had settled, the wounds on Jim’s arms had already healed.
In the blink of an eye Letho charged, sword back in hand. Jim had just enough time to raise his blades in the shape of an “X”, locking Letho’s blade above his own head. Jim pushed upward, throwing Letho off balance. In the same movement he dropped low and spun, opening a gash across Letho’s chest. Letho brought his knee up fast, blocking Jim’s follow-up with his own blade, a lethal upward thrust that would have skewered Letho’s heart.
Jim was fast, but Letho was faster. Saladin was pouring streams of data into his brain. Unlock the following features when you upgrade to the officer’s package, he heard the sword say into his mind.
Whenever Jim made a move, the sword saw potential attack scenarios, calculated probabilities, and provided Letho with the appropriate parry or evasive maneuver. The problem, Letho discovered, was that Jim was without fear. There were attacks that could disable an opponent, knock the fight right out of them—but they didn’t work on Jim. Jim was a creature unbound by fear of pain or death. Saladin’s data banks were vast, but they were of no avail against such a warrior.
As Jim thrust again, Letho dodged to the left and landed a thudding backhand to Jim’s jaw. Jim staggered, eyes crossed, and then committed himself to a blind charge. Letho easily deflected Jim’s blades with his own, and a cutting stroke jarred one of the blades loose from Jim’s hand. It fell at Letho’s feet with a final clatter.
“Hey, that’s mine!” Jim shouted.
Fear, anger, or perhaps an amalgamation of the two spread across his face.
“Oh, you mean this little thing?” Letho said. “Why don’t you come and get it back?”
Jim ran straight at Letho in a burst of speed that surprised even Letho. The maneuver was clumsy and desperate, and Letho sidestepped it with relative ease. He stabbed his sword into Jim’s bicep, causing black blood to spurt down the silver steel of the blade. Jim, undaunted, turned toward Letho, nearly removing his own bicep in the process. Letho panicked as Jim grabbed his wrist and squeezed, each of his fingers a granite column grinding down, threatening to pulverize Letho’s bones. The sword fell from Letho’s waning grip, and Jim placed his free hand on Letho’s shoulder, forcing him down.
“I said that was MINE!” Jim snarled.
Letho could taste the filth of Jim’s breath wafting down on him. With his free hand, Letho punched with all of his strength, sinking his fist deep into Jim’s chest, shattering ribs and crushing the Mendraga’s lung. Jim gasped, but did not falter. He slapped at Letho’s arm, and Letho felt the bone crack as his arm slid from the black hole in Jim’s chest.
Jim gripped a handful of Letho’s sweat-lank hair and jerked his head back. With a cackle he moved downward, his jaw seemingly unhinging to reveal his barbed tentacles. Letho struggled, but Jim had him off balance. Letho’s arms thudded with no effect on Jim’s torso and lower body. Letho steeled himself for the inevitable. A wet, tearing sound followed, and Letho felt cold blood raining all over his face and down his neck.
But it was not his own.
Jim spasmed and lurched back. The female Mendraga was on Jim’s back, straddling his hips from behind. Bloodcurdling peals of rage issued forth from her wide mouth, her bared teeth vicious but somehow sensual as they gleamed under the false light.
Her hands were sunk deep into the front of Jim’s throat, and he was clawing to get her off of his back. Letho saw sheaves of torn flesh dropping to the floor like peels of carved wood as Jim slashed her forearms again and again. The woman pulled up and back, eviscerating Jim’s neck and shoulders. He staggered forward, head lolling on an exposed neck bone, crimson surging in all directions, a scene of delicious irony.
She leapt back from him, discarding chunks of him as she reached up, grasping the sides of his head. Letho and Jim exchanged one last look, Jim’s eyes wide with amazement.
Well, whaddaya know? his final expression seemed to say.
Twisting and pulling, the female Mendraga removed Jim’s head from its socket with a satisfying pop.
She tossed the head aside, and Letho saw Jim’s surprised face and the back of his skull alternate as his head rolled over the edge of the catwalk and into oblivion.
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
“Thank you Alastor, that was splendid,” said Abraxas, wiping smears of blood from his chin. The gesture only managed to make matters worse, for there were smears of blood covering his entire body. “Please forgive my disheveled state. I was perhaps a little overzealous. It has been quite some time since I have enjoyed such a feeding.”
“
Here, let me help you, Father.”
Alastor began to wash the blood from the Lord Father’s body, and when he was done, he brought out the Lord Father’s raiment. He dressed Abraxas in flowing silk robes adorned with pictograms from his home world.
“We must move quickly now, for the time has come to return to Eursus,” Abraxas said.
“Yes, my Lord. But first, if it pleases you, I would see to my lieutenants.”
“They are lost, Alastor. Can you not sense it? It is time to open the gates.”
Alastor sighed and bowed his head to the Lord Father.
“Let us go to the bridge,” Alastor said at last.
But Alastor could not let his progeny go without seeing their fate with his own eyes. He ran to a nearby computer panel, and with a series of keystrokes he was scanning security cameras throughout the ship. He saw the bloody remains of Mavus lying next to the toppled Jolly Roger. He saw the main hallway, where the bodies of his newest recruits had been vaporized. He gasped at the sight of Jim, beheaded.
“Mavus, Jim, Cantus, they are all dead. But where is Thresha?”
His lifeless heart sank as he saw her standing over the fallen body of Crimson Jim. She looked up at the camera, at last reaching out with her mind to see and feel her master’s own consciousness.
Even you must admit that Jim got what he had coming to him, she thought.
Jim was never able to control his bloodlust, but I loved him just the same. Come with us. You have demonstrated that you alone are worthy to walk in Abraxas’s footsteps, Alastor implored.
I have given you all that I have to give. I am done with you and your quest. I will not help you any further.
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