“I will.” Jim answered even before the final echo of Alastor’s voice had faded.
“Very well,” Alastor said. He placed the tank containing Jim’s bare brain into a protective steel case and began the incantations.
Read on for a sneak peek of the first chapters of The Adventures of Letho Ferron II - Hastrom City.
ONE - The Return
The night sky over Hastrom City was tranquil. Over the generations the sky had become clear as the land reclaimed the city, and the belching factories—having surrendered their incessant rumblings—crumbled to ruin. On a night like this one could cast one’s eyes upward and see an infinite sea of twinkling pinpricks, strewn across the sky like chaff blown from an open palm. It looked like chaos, but there was the arrangement of stars known as the archer, bowstring drawn taut for all eternity. Perhaps tonight he hunted for Ursus, the great bear in the sky, from whom this world drew its name.
For as far as the eye could see, rumpled asphalt spindled out in all directions. All along these roadways, sentinels of all shapes and colors stood watch, noting the passage of skittering shadows with listless, headlamp eyes.
One such steel husk was now the home to a clutch of robin’s eggs. The mother robin hopped from side to side in quick jerks, seeing to them as best she could in this fouled wasteland. A scaly, pox-ridden claw struck out from the shadows below, and the mother would worry for her children no more. The insidious sound of smacking jaws and the frail pops of tiny bones being pulverized filled the air. At last, a lusty belch, then chattering and misshapen words.
They moved within the shadows, always mindful to not be seen. Their bent backs were pitiful. Their limbs, marked with all manner of flesh-consuming plagues, were bent and deformed, and would be all but useless if not for the bony claws at the ends of their fingers. Their faces were runny and malformed, a remorseless deity’s joke.
Over the city a red eye opened, and a mote was expelled from it. It streaked across the sky, enveloped in orange and white. The fell creatures that dwelled among the shadows cast by Hastrom City, having long forsaken the wisdom of older ages, believed it was the coming of a new god. In some regards they were correct.
As the falling star entered the atmosphere, its wreath of flame disappeared. The ship settled into a hovering pattern, easing over the land like a god’r hand. It revealed itself to be a starship—not that the creatures below had any knowledge of such things. It roared above them, edging toward cruising speed, causing the autos below to tremble in its wake. The fell creatures pointed at it with their crude flipper-like arms, and began to ululate in their foul language.
Alastor caressed the navigation orbs, steadying the course of his great ship. He studied the broken landscape, making note of the number of creatures below. Their veil of shadow provided no refuge from the all-seeing eye located on the bottom of his ship. For sport he might turn on a searchlight and rain down pitiless white light onto the creatures, searing their filth-crusted eyes, casting them into scrabbling fits of terror.
Within moments he was crossing over into the urban honeycomb that was Hastrom City. He noted that a great wall had been erected, encircling the city, and he was pleased to see a complement of watchmen patrolling. He chuckled as one of the guards split the head of one of the fell creatures with a bullet from a high-powered sniper rifle. The soldier waved, and Alastor waved back, feeling foolish as he realized the soldier couldn’t see him.
The ship passed over an ugly pyramid-like building in the center of the town. Alastor could see the people below; from his perch their movements looked like those of ants scrambling. They grew as he eased the ship down, and he perceived their movements not as the scuttling of ants, but rather as the mundane rituals that they were. This one is grabbing a cup of coffee. This one is sharing a hilarious anecdote with a fellow worker.
Alastor could feel a static charge in the air, smell the acrid-sweet aroma of ions in the air that heralded a coming storm. He took his place at his Master’s side, careful to stay a full stride behind Abraxas, and together they made their way down the ramp and out of the cruiser to meet the welcoming party.
At last, I am home.
The Eursans fell prostrate at Abraxas’s feet. He stood there for a moment, allowing them to worship him.
“Which of you is Chancellor Steigen?” he asked.
“I, Lord Abraxas,” said an older man from the floor. His clothes were ornate while the others’ were of industrial hues: grays and tans.
“I should have known. Please rise, Chancellor Steigen.”
The man rose to his knees, and then with grinding effort, to his feet. He regarded Abraxas with wide eyes.
Alastor watched as the man drank in the image of his Master. Abraxas stood a foot or two taller than the Eursan men. His body was completely hairless, and glistened under the halogen lamps above. His face was malformed, with black eyes that stared unblinking from a deeply furrowed brow. His mouth was really more of a snout, capped with a wide nose with slit-like nostrils. His mouth spread into a grin filled with crooked razors. Alastor smiled as well. It brought them both great pleasure to see such a prestigious man lying prostrate before them.
“You will have to forgive me, Lord. I am not as spry as I used to be,” said the chancellor, breathless.
“How you prattle. If I wish to know of a dog, I shall ask its keeper. Who is your keeper, dog?”
“My Lord is Abraxas!” he said.
“Yes, dog. You must learn not to speak in front of your betters. But I am feeling generous this evening. Perhaps it is the coolness of the air that soothes me. I shall allow you to live for another day.”
“Thank you, Master.”
“Now if your mind is not too terribly addled, perhaps you can take us to speak to those whom we have come to see.”
“Very well. Lord Abraxas, Sir Alastor, will you follow me? I have prepared everything.” This time the foolish man made sure not to engage in eye contact with either Alastor or Abraxas.
Good dogs: they can be taught.
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Chancellor Steigen led them through cramped hallways, lit with the type of industrial lighting that could only be described as adequate. They flickered every few seconds, casting a strobing effect on the occasional worker that strode by. Alastor took note of a man wearing threadbare blue denim coveralls that were smattered with petrol smears. The man grinned, treating Alastor to a mouthful of misshapen black lumps that were once teeth.
Alastor noticed the tile floor below him. Though scrubbed clean, it could not hide the abrasions and wear marks of heavy use. There were smudges on the painted cinderblock walls that no number of cleanings could remove.
“Not quite as ornate on the inside, is it?” Alastor asked.
“Well sir, it is a public building: ornate on the outside, utilitarian on the inside,” answered Chancellor Steigen. His eyes darted to meet Alastor’s, then away. Alastor scoffed. At this, Abraxas placed his hand on Alastor’s shoulder and shook his head once from side to side.
“We shall have to remedy that,” Abraxas said.
“It will suffice for the time being, so long as it does not collapse. You haven’t had any buildings collapse lately, have you Steigen?” Alastor asked.
“None in this sector, sir.”
The chancellor opened the door and bowed, gesturing for them to enter the conference room with a sweep of his arm.
“If you will take your seats, my lords, Premier Eladin will be with you momentarily.”
Chancellor Steigen motioned toward a set of office chairs flanking an imposing oak desk. At the head of the table was an ornate throne. It was carved from a rich, dark wood, the surfaces of which swirled with beautiful burls.
“Lord Abraxas, how do you like it? One of our artisans carved it as a welcoming gift,” said Steigen, wringing his hands. Alastor noticed that Steigen was trembling, and didn’t dare make eye contact with Abraxas.
“It is beautiful, Steigen. Please give your artisan my
thanks.”
Steigen looked as though his face might melt as a wide spectrum of Eursan emotion passed over it. His eyes glistened with tears. With an absent nod Alastor strode past the chancellor and took his seat at Abraxas’s right hand.
“Very good, Steigen. Now if you would please bring us Eladin and his advisors.”
“My Lord, they come.”
Maroon curtains on a far wall began to part, creaking and groaning on some unseen ancient mechanism. A sort of stage appeared, adorned with five small, silver pedestals embedded in the floor and arranged in a diamond pattern with one in the center. The whine of old computers awakening filled the air, and images began to appear above the pedestals: first spectral Eursan outlines ringed by dancing motes of dust, then full three-dimensional figures. The illusion was quite convincing, save for the occasional shimmer as data pipes struggled to push the large amounts of audio and video.
There were five of them, dressed in charcoal-hued suits. Bright ties, cravats, and silk blouses popped in vibrant colors that were accentuated by the holograms’ real-picture enhancement. Three of them were men, two of them women. The man who was in the middle appeared to be the leader, for the others seemed to be watching him. Alastor noted his height, his broad shoulders. He was middle-aged, with black hair streaked with austere gray at the temples. He flashed a smile, but the eyes above the pearlescent grin were black rodent eyes in the presence of a wizened tomcat.
“Lord Abraxas, Master Alastor,” said the grinning man. He dropped to one knee, his silk suit swishing. The others followed suit. Alastor noticed a single bead of sweat course down the side of the holo-man’s face.
“You must be Premier Eladin.”
“Yes, Lord Abraxas. We must apologize that we cannot meet you in person due to circumstances you are no doubt aware of. We hope that these real-3D representations are pleasing enough. What can we do for you?”
“Whether you appear to me in flesh or as photons matters not to me. I need only to know if you and your council agree to our terms,” said Abraxas.
Eladin tilted his head as he peered at Abraxas. “And what terms are you speaking of?”
“An agreement your chancellor has brokered.”
At this a tumult of hushed words and exchanged looks of fear erupted from Hastrom City’s councilors.
“Sir, we know of no such—”
“SILENCE, mongrel!”
The lights dimmed, and the air seemed to grow ten degrees colder. Steigen shivered and recoiled, looking as though he wished to shrink and scamper away. Alastor only smiled, and placed his metallic boots on the table with a pronounced clank. Abraxas cocked his head, cracking the bones in his neck. He took a deep breath, held it, then released.
“Alastor, would you please outline our plan for the council?” he asked.
“Gladly, my Master. The terms are as follows: We understand that you have been having trouble with the so-called ‘artisans’ in the labor sector,” he said, gesturing to Abraxas’s ornate chair.
“They have been clamoring for more wages, food rations, et cetera. We also understand that there have been reports of militant activity, of public demonstration. You cannot address this issue in your current… situation… as Chancellor Steigen has brought to our attention. We will help to eliminate any signs of rebellion, and provide security for you and your cohorts. Your sanctuary will not be breached. You will continue to run the infrastructures of this great city, and we will keep the peace between you and the lesser beings in the artisan sector. In addition, we will help you reclaim the land surrounding your city. More territory means more agriculture, and we can increase the food rations for all, and provide them with work and wages.”
“You would do all this? Why? What’s in it for you?” Eladin asked.
“We ask for only a small thing: a place for our species to survive. The dawn of a new era is upon us. Eursans and Mendraga will live in perfect symbiosis. All we ask for is permission to harvest the one thing a Mendraga needs to survive: fluid from their bodies.”
“You expect us to allow you to murder our citizens? That’s barbaric!”
“Of course not. We would harvest their essence in a most humane way. All citizens, in exchange for protection and increased food rations, will have to make a weekly donation. The harvesting process would be relatively painless, the only side effects being mild light-headedness and nausea.”
“I am sorry. At this time I just cannot authorize such a thing. If you could just give us some time to consider your most generous offer,” Eladin said.
“I was afraid you might say that. Chancellor Steigen?”
Steigen’s head jerked like a startled horse’s. He trembled as he stood and faced Alastor.
“Yes, my Lord?”
“We seemed to have reached an impasse in our negotiations. Is there anything you can do to persuade them?”
Chancellor Steigen looked between the projected councilors and the extra-terrestrial visitors. His eyes brimmed with tears, and he dropped his head. When his eyes met Alastor’s again, Alastor nodded once.
“I had hoped that it would not come to this. Forgive me,” Chancellor Steigen said.
He went over to a computer terminal in the back corner of the room and began to enter rapid commands.
“Steigen, what are you doing?” Eladin said.
Steigen did not reply, his face lit by flashes of color as protocols streamed past his eyes. A crude pyramid shape appeared on the screen. There were thousands of rectangles arrayed in rows, each of them containing a single name. Chancellor Steigen reached out with a slender finger and touched the one at the top. The rectangle expanded to fill the screen, showing the vital signs of Premier Eladin, including heart rate, body temperature, and mood. Eladin’s heart rate was elevated, his mood blaring in red flashing text:
AGITATED
“Steigen, don’t… please.”
Steigen entered a series of keystrokes and a button appeared in the bottom right corner of Eladin’s readout. He reached out with his slender finger and pressed the screen once again.
TERMINATE? YES OR NO? THIS OPERATION IS IRREVERSIBLE.
Steigen pressed a button on the screen, and Eladin’s glowing projection disappeared. The councilors began to shriek and sob.
“What have I done?” Steigen cried. His body swayed, and he reached out to grasp the terminal to steady himself, but his arms had become useless. He collapsed to the floor. Grinning, Alastor rose from his chair.
“Now, where were we?”
TWO - Centennial Fulcrum
Letho saw the first body, garbed in the telltale bright orange jumpsuit of a dockworker. Clutched in his hand was a small handgun.
“Hey, there’s the dockworker, Deacon. You can go ahead and have that talk with him,” said Letho.
“Yeah, very funny, Letho,” said Deacon. Letho had drawn the Black Bear, and the Tarsi were sniffing at the air. Deacon took the dockworker’s handgun and checked it.
“Still loaded,” Deacon said.
“Mendraga have been here,” Thresha said.
“How do you know?” Bayorn asked.
“Can’t you smell it?”
There was a definite scent on the air, but it was faint. It was the smell of rot, just pungent enough to bring one’s stomach contents to a roil, but not quite enough to cause a full heave. They continued to make their way through the abandoned cargo area. The place looked like a warzone. Work surfaces were overturned. Waste and once-precious things littered the floor, discarded in panicked flight. Some of the walls were marked with the scoring of small-weapons fire. They happened upon a few more bodies as they headed towards the dock foreman’s office. These unfortunate fellows were dry, skin stretched taut, lips pulled back from yellow teeth. Letho saw the telltale puncture marks on their necks and chest.
Letho and Deacon each took one side of the doorway to the foreman’s office. The office was a small enclosure built into the side of the tall steel walls of the docking area. The box-like enclos
ure was made of plasteel set in a metal frame, but the blinds were drawn, making it impossible to see inside. Letho squeezed the handle of his 1908; the wood and steel whispered that everything was going to be all right.
Bayorn was at his side, attempting to peer in between the blinds, and he pointed to a spot where the blinds were being pulled down by a set of fingers entangled in them.
“There aren’t any Mendraga in there, if that’s what you are wondering,” said Thresha.
“She’s right, I can’t smell the stink of her kind in there either,” said Maka, sneering. Thresha bared her teeth then grinned at Maka. Maka raised his arm as if to strike, but Letho shook his head. Maka backed down, but the look that he cut at Letho told him that he was not pleased about it.
“All right, on three!” said Letho, kicking the door down.
Deacon went to one side of the office and flipped the light switch while Letho moved farther into the sepulcher-like enclosure. The fetid remains of a man lay sprawled across a set of chairs in the corner, as if he had become tangled in his own feet and fallen on the way out the door, then decided to remain in that pose for eternity. Letho went to the man and turned him over. This one, too, bore puncture marks on his neck and face.
“You forgot to count to three,” Deacon muttered.
“This must be the dock foreman, “ Bayorn said.
“Oh yeah, what was your first clue?” Letho snapped.
A thin smile adorned his face, but the inflection of the reply was all but a slap to Bayorn’s snout. Maka grunted and put his hand on Letho’s shoulder, and their eyes met. Letho sighed and hunched his shoulders.
“I’m sorry, Bayorn. That was uncalled for. I’m just a little strung out from recent events.”
“It is okay, Letho.”
The words from Bayorn’s mouth and his icy gaze told two different stories. Letho felt as if the Tarsi was inside his mind, rifling through his thoughts. He turned his attention back to the dock foreman. His sallow skin was stretched taut across his skull. It had begun to peel back in places, revealing patches of bare bone.
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