by O. J. Lowe
He didn’t want to take her to dinner. Theo didn’t know what she wanted out of him or why she insisted on helping him. He hadn’t asked, she’d volunteered it and he’d often wondered as to her intentions behind it. Either way, be they noble or selfish, she was the closest thing he’d had to a friend for quite a while. Someone he had a connection with.
Normally he saw other people in three ways. Potential rivals. Actual rivals. Everyone else. He needed a fourth space for her. Maybe she had a crush on him and that thought alone was enough to make him feel acutely uncomfortable. He hadn’t spent much time alone with the opposite sex and in a way, he didn’t see Anne that way.
He’d have beaten himself up as little as a few weeks ago for even thinking something like this, but he didn’t want to ruin what had become between the two of them. Friendship. That word wouldn’t ever have entered his vocabulary before now. And yet it had snuck into his life without his permission or his control. And he was powerless to do anything about it.
Theo had already made his decision though. A deal was a deal; his father had always drilled that much into him. You make it, you follow through. He’d take her to dinner following his bout with Sharon Arventino. He’d honour the arrangement they’d had. He owed her that much. They’d continue to do what they did.
And then they’d see what the future held for them both.
The tests had been done and he’d felt their scepticism. He’d heard them tell him that there was nothing wrong with him but he’d insisted they go deeper, that they check his bloodwork again. They didn’t know what they were looking for, even if they did there was a chance they might not be able to heal him but he’d done his best to make damn sure that they did everything they could…
That woman… Their employer had certainly had a big enough carrot dangled in front of her. It hadn’t taken long for him to work out her angle. She wanted what she wanted, he could help her with that if she helped him. It was a risky move, granted. He could still sense just about enough of her intentions to know that serving her up the sort of power she sought after would likely be a bad thing. What she would do with it would likely fail to benefit too many people other than her and those she surrounded herself with. She would be the worst type of ruler should that day arrive; she would make Vazaran despot dictators seem like kind thoughtful men. She preached paradise but what she promised was domination of the highest order. He got the impression it wouldn’t take long for the balance to be tipped from the benevolence she spoke to the cruelty she craved.
Unfortunately, Wim Carson couldn’t bring himself to care. That was not part of his thinking process now. He had too many problems of his own to worry about what she might or might not do. It was possible he may have misjudged her. He’d been faulting his own judgement for far too long lately. He couldn’t keep doing it. And he had his own agenda to pursue.
Nothing good comes of great power being handed down to those who might misuse it. At least by entering in partnership with her for the time being, he could attempt to keep a check on her. It might not work. He had to try though. And he might as well put into fruition his own plans from a comfortable base until he got back onto his feet. The times had not been good. Not since the Fall. He didn’t know how many Vedo were left. He might be the only one and until they helped him, he was only half of one. Not even that. All the knowledge and the memories and what good did it do him?
Now here he was, wearing one of those horrible blue gowns and awaiting them to finish prepping up their cocktail. Blue clad doctors and nurses swarmed around him, they all looked busy, they were all going way too fast for a simple thing like this and it was only then that Wim Carson realised the drugs they’d given to relax him were kicking in. He didn’t like drugs, not normally. But this was quite a pleasant feeling. It made it quite hard to care about things. Things that should have been towards the forefront of his mind just danced away out of reach. Hard to think. But not impossible.
Back in the day, he wouldn’t have needed this. He’d just have slipped into a calming coma, let the Kjarn accelerate the natural healing process of his body and he’d have been fine. Ever since the Fall, that had no longer been an issue.
The most maddening thing in the entire world, he had discovered since then, was being able to sense something but not touch it. Not utilise it. Not embrace it the way you had for so many years. He had once been so much and now he was so little. Even cleaned up and shaved, given fresh clothes and a room by his benefactor to sleep in, he was still a shadow of his former self. A pale reflection. Nothing.
Without the Kjarn that had guided him since he was a child, he was less than nothing. They’d taken it from him and he wanted it back. No matter the cost.
And they’d found the cause, of course. Just as he’d urged them to look deep into his bloodwork, it had to be there, he’d been able to feel them there inside him for a long time, they’d hit their results.
That strange doctor with the lisp, Hota, had come to him with a passive look on his face and Wim had been intrigued by it. When the men with the knowledge had that expression on their face, it generally didn’t bode well. Either they were excited and trying to hide it or they were terrified and trying even harder.
“Mithter Carthon,” he’d said primly. “I have your tetht rethulth here.” He held out a data pad in front of him and slender fingers danced across the buttons, bringing it into life. Wim locked his eyes on him as he did so.
“Is it bad or good?” He asked before realising it might not have been the right question to ask. “Can you heal me? Or not?”
“We will heal you, Mithter Carthon,” Hota said. “There are jutht quethionth to be athked firtht. I have never failed.”
“There is a first time for everything, you know,” Wim replied, stretching his fingers out in front of him uneasily. “And pride will always be the undoing of those who wear it as a badge of honour.”
“There ith.” Hota didn’t sound like he was disagreeing. “Your proclamation of imminent death appearth to have been exaggerated. According to thith, you are in perfect health. Too healthy.”
“That’s what they want you to think,” Wim said. “They’re keeping me healthy. They don’t want me to die. Not while they’re feeding on me.”
“Ath you inthithted,” Hota continued, his face registering annoyance at being interrupted. “We examined your blood thampleth and it wath there that we found the anthwer.” A holographic image flashed up in the space between them with a red tinge, a dozen red and white disc-like objects running across it and Wim realised it was a cross section of his own blood stream. “Ath you can thee here, everything lookth normal, ath can be expected, yeth?”
Without replying, Wim just nodded and folded his arms. “But if we look clother, then we can thee that thith ith not the cathe.” He hit a button and the holo-image began to expand, zooming in on one of the platelets. “Thith ith a hundred magnification. And thith ith where the problemth come into play you thee.” Wim narrowed his eyes and stared at the image, trying to take in what he could see. More than that he was trying to process what he could see into something could understand.
“How small are they are?” he asked, still not quite able to believe it. Even at a hundred magnification, they were still little more than dots on the platelet.
“Beyond microthcopic,” Hota said. “They’re tho thmall that outthide the human body, they would ceathe to exitht. The light falling on them would weigh more than them and cruth them. But in you, they thrive. Magnify a thouthand.”
Even now they still looked small but definition was coming in. It was like looking at an ant on a table. You could see the outline but not quite every little detail, Wim noticed. Way too many legs.
“Magnify a hundred thouthand,” Hota continued and Wim recoiled at the sight of the ugly little creature that was biting down onto his platelet, a hideous microbe with a thousand hairy little legs and three sets of jaws. Its body was covered in milky blind eyes and as the platelet rotated, he cou
ld see it was dug into it with a single spike stuck down into the material.
“That’s disgusting,” he said.
“I agree abtholutely,” Hota said amicably. “And you’re filled with them. What doeth that make you? Other than medically interethting.”
“Your bedside manner is terrible,” Wim said dryly.
“Tell it to thomeone who careth,” Hota replied. “You want curing or not? Oh actually, you want to thee thith?”
Still focused in on the creature, Wim watched as the platelet rippled suddenly with a faint sheen of blue energy and the creature went into frenzy, he could see it sucking the stuff in, growing bigger and fatter off it although the effect didn’t last long. Within moments it was back down to its normal size.
“Want to explain?”
Wim didn’t. But what he’d suspected might just have been confirmed. When they’d been doing the tests, several times he’d reached for the Kjarn and several times, just as with the several times before, he had failed. And now he knew. The things were feeding off it. They were feeding off him. Knowing it to be true didn’t make it better. If anything, the opposite was true.
“They’re called tesicre,” he said. “They’re a rare type of energy parasite. They feed off the Kjarn.” The former home of the order used to crawl with them. But they were never like this. They were harmless. They had been harmless.
“Don’t thuppothe you know how to get rid of them,” Hota said, closing the image. Wim grinned at him, looking more cheerful than he felt.
“Not even in the slightest. They were never like this. I never heard of them doing this. They shouldn’t be able to…” Unless they were affected by the Fall. It had driven the Vedo mad. Caused them to turn on each other. Only those who had been away from the temple had been spared the worst effects. They’d come back to find the bodies.
Even worse, they’d found the survivors. Something had corrupted the Kjarn if only for a brief time. Even unable to touch it, he’d been sometimes able to sense the film that covered it if he focused hard enough. It was like scattering salt into sugar. Normally it would be sweet. Every so often it would take on a different taste. The whole overall experience affected.
“Fortunate for you that I have thome ideath then,” Hota grinned. “Not for nothing doeth the Mithreth rely upon my work. I will thave you, my dear Mithter Carthon. You’ll awaken a new man.”
And here he was, his entire body aching as he awoke, he felt bruised and battered like an oversized crash doll. The first thing he saw was her staring down at him, a tube in his throat preventing him from speaking. Hota, still wearing his scrubs was stood behind her, arms folded.
He could feel them both. Hota was smug, she was impassive. It was different than before. Beyond the pain, he couldn’t feel anything of his body. But if there was pain, then at least he was still wired up right. His body still worked. That was good. Nothing broken. Nothing damaged. He let out a groan and Hota came over, gently easing the tube out.
“Thteady, thteady, Mithter Carthon,” he murmured. “It wath a routhing thucceth. How do you feel?”
There was only the one way that he felt the need to answer that question as he lay there, his body on fire with agony and his mind still catching up with the waking state. Focusing in on the tube hurt. More than that, it was an effort. More of an effort than anything he’d done since first learning how to touch it. He had plenty of practice to get back in.
And just for a moment, he thought that it had failed. More than once, he thought it would continue to fail. No matter how much he focused on the tube in Hota’s hands, it failed to respond to his command.
Come… Come on!
Still he focused. The fires screaming through his body roared ever louder and he almost blacked out from the pain. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He needed to do this and he wasn’t going to give up until…
Had it twitched? He couldn’t tell. His stomach churned. Being hungry wasn’t a new experience for him. He could go longer, he just needed to feel it once more. The first time of many. He needed it and then he could rest. How he needed the rest.
It twitched. It did more than that, it hovered up out of Hota’s palm, a paltry inch into the air before it fell. Compared to what he’d used to be able to do, it was pathetic.
But it was a start.
And for the first time in years, Wim Carson felt settled as he lapsed back into unconsciousness. The hardest thing he’d ever done and the most peaceful he’d ever felt merged into one fleeting moment as the blackness rushed up to claim him.
Good… Good…
Chapter Thirty-Nine. Threats Abound.
“Yeah, I remember Phillipe Mazoud. Ruthless bastard in every sense of the word. Whatever you do, don’t underestimate him. He might not look like much but he is the sort of man who will put you in the ground if you give him a reason to. You won’t see it coming either. Always be reasonable with him, never turn your back on him and never let him see you bleed. He’ll find a way to use it against you. I can’t imagine a more dangerous man in charge of the Vazaran Sun right now.”
Terrence Arnholt to Leonard Nwakili upon Mazoud becoming head of the Vazaran Suns.
The fifteenth day of Summerpeak.
The image flickered in front of them, it wasn’t a high-quality transmission but there was no mistaking the identity of the contact. Phillipe Mazoud looked predominantly Vazaran but according to his file, he also had some Serranian blood in him.
Stood in the background, watching it all unfold, Terrence Arnholt found himself wondering which side of him would be the more reasonable. Vazarans were known to be hot headed and reckless. Serranians had a reputation for being wild and hot blooded. It wasn’t a good combination in the slightest but Mazoud had to have some savvy. He wouldn’t be the leader of the Vazaran Suns if he wasn’t. Mercenaries with honour, they didn’t follow just anyone. They’d kill anyone for credits but they weren’t suicidal. Not even close.
It was an interesting model but it seemed to work for them. If you wanted them, they were the best. And Mazoud had a not undeserved reputation for being reasonable just as much as he did as being capable of wanton brutality should the situation call for it. It was a lethal combination. Small wonder he held the sway he did in Vazara with more than twelve hundred highly trained mercenaries at his immediate disposal. And those were just the ones that they knew about. Arnholt had often wondered about the unaccounted ones. At what point do mercenaries become a militia?
He wanted to remain unseen for the moment but still observe the discussion Allison Crumley was holding with Mazoud. As communications director for Unisco, it was her job to be with him in situations like this. Crumley was a matronly woman in her forties, her hair neat and equal parts ash blonde and grey, but the days of sitting behind a desk were slowly starting to catch her up. She’d flown in a few days earlier, along with Mallinson and Arnholt felt more than a little confident that there would be a positive outcome to this conversation.
“Anything for Unisco,” Mazoud was saying. “What can I do for you?”
“Mister Mazoud,” Crumley said, her voice strong and authoritative in the otherwise silence of the room. “We would like words regarding certain actions your organisation recently found themselves engaged in.”
He held out his hands and smirked. He had a turned down mouth like a slit and his eyes were menacingly hooded. Long black hair hung down his face in oily ringlets. “Ms Crumley, I assure you that everything we do is entirely within the legal limits of the operation zone. It may not be ethical, it may be immoral but believe me, I can say it is certainly not illegal.”
Crumley didn’t blink. Arnholt nodded to himself in approval. Being unfazed by bullshit was always a prime commodity that not enough people appreciated. His old superior had described it as a key leadership quality. “I am afraid I may have to dispute that with you. Have the Dark Wind been out on patrol recently?”
“Perhaps. We recently lost quite a few of our ships on a training exercise.” If h
e was bothered, Mazoud didn’t show it. “There are always more of them.”
“This training exercise wouldn’t have taken place above the Elkan Ocean, would it by any chance?” Crumley asked. The Elkan Ocean split Vazara and Premesoir. It was also the area in which six HAX gunships had either been shot down or gone missing in a recent engagement, along with a prisoner transport and the entire staff crewing it. Not to mention the prisoner in question. Arnholt had a desire to see that it was found before that individual was back walking the streets unchecked.
Mazoud shrugged. “I don’t have the details in front of me. That exercise you refer to was set out by someone else. Why do you ask?”
Crumley said nothing, just stared at him with a smug smile for a moment. “Because if this exercise consisted of what we believe it to consist of, then not only did you break the rules of the five kingdoms, you broke your own code of honour. Six of our HAX’s were shot down a week ago. They were escorting a prisoner transport.”
Mazoud shifted on the spot, shrugging his shoulders again. His hangdog expression took on a pursed look that didn’t fool Arnholt for a moment. “Sounds like you need to train your pilots better. I can recommend someone for that.”
“We know the Dark Wind was there,” Crumley said. “What we want to know is why? Who sent you after that prisoner transport?”
“If you seem to know that we were there, regardless of whether we may or may not have been,” Mazoud said smoothly. “Then you should also know it is largely beyond our abilities to hijack one of your prisoner transports. I’m not saying we couldn’t do it. I’m saying that it wouldn’t be worth it. We never touched it. I can assure you that much.”
