There were grunts of assent; a handful of the bears stood up and beat their chests in unison with their right hands. Soon the sounds of accord were drowning out the intermittent voices of dissent.
“Quiet, my brothers,” said Bayorn, the rise of the Tarsi chorus stirring a long-lost sensation of battle-lust. Then through a wry smile he said, “Here is what we must do.”
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Letho was jostled from a deep sleep by a subtle alteration in the station’s trajectory. His arm and chest had stopped shrieking the moronic, redundant cry of injury, but a slight adjustment of his person let him know that the wounds were far from healed.
How am I going to get out of this one?
He felt the immense pressure of solitude pressing down on him. He thought of his Tarsi brethren and the Elder. The last time he had seen the old bear, he was collapsing to the floor, spurts of gold staining the floor and the butt of the inspector’s heathen weapon. He had not been fast enough, had not seen it coming. Letho had seen Tarsi mistreated before, but never like that. He found himself awash in shame for a people that would spit on those that kept the station running, asking for nothing in return save for safe passage and a place to rest their bones when the day’s work was done.
And what of Zedock Wartimer? He was unsure of the man’s motives. Zedock had come to Letho’s aid and defused a potentially deadly situation by stopping any further bloodshed. But at the same time the man seemed to harbor great concern for his position in the security sector. Letho decided that it came down to survival needs: no job, no credits, no food. If Letho hadn’t escaped to the underneath with the Tarsi, he would have been assigned a new job at less pay and with less privilege. Or worse, he might have been cast into the low-income sector in the Envirodome.
The sound of scuffling and shouting drew him from his thoughts. The chorus of several Tarsi roaring in unison tore through the atmosphere and caused the hairs on his neck to stand on end. With a sudden crash, a station inspector came hurtling through the two-way mirror, spraying shattered glass that sparkled like stars to Letho’s sharpening vision. That cold but not unpleasant sensation filled his limbs; he imagined that his heart was beating at least a thousand times per second.
An impulse to rise from his gurney filled his mind. Letho’s arm and chest cried protest, but it felt as though the sensation of pain was far away and in someone else’s body. As he rose to a standing position he wasn’t sure which gave first: the thick leather straps or the steel rings they were coupled to. He turned his gaze on the fallen inspector—he was breathing, but unconscious. A few lacerations dripped blood on the glass-spattered floor, but they didn’t appear to be life-threatening. A roar pierced the air and Letho looked through the shattered mirror to see a Tarsi chucking another station inspector against the wall like a duffel bag full of dirty laundry. Their eyes met and the Tarsi offered him a curt nod.
Letho could hear the dry, popping report of tranq-rifles. He had no idea what was on the other side of this mirror, or even where he was on the Fulcrum station. After a moment’s thought, he decided that his place was with his Tarsi brethren, regardless of what was on the other side of the broken mirror.
He leaped through, avoiding jagged glass shards that were eager to add new and grievous injuries to his body. He weaved through corridors, heading toward the sound of commotion. When he burst through the doorway to the security command center he saw fallen station inspectors everywhere. A small group of Tarsi were standing in the center of the room, glowering over the desk of Zedock Wartimer, their hackles still raised like jagged spikes on their backs.
The Elder was speaking to Zedock; Bayorn and Maka were at his side.
“Bayorn! Maka!” Letho exclaimed, rushing toward the Tarsi.
The bears responded in kind, grabbing Letho in a brother’s embrace. There was a momentary shock of pain from his arm and chest, but he was able to suppress it in the moment. Bayorn’s stout arms enveloped Letho, firm yet gentle. Even so, Letho felt a fleeting moment of panic when he realized he couldn’t breathe. Bayorn relaxed his grip, and Letho took in a deep breath.
“You guys came for me!” Letho exclaimed.
“Of course! Wouldn’t want you to miss a day’s work,” Maka said, slapping Letho on his uninjured shoulder.
“Hey! Watch it, man! I’m a little fragile here,” Letho said.
Their joyous reunion was cut short by Zedock Wartimer.
“You’ve really done it this time, old bear. What the hell were you thinking?” Zedock spat.
“You know why we are here, Zedock.”
“Wait, you two know each other?” Letho asked.
“Yes we do, Letho. The Elder and I go way back,” Zedock said.
The Elder nodded, placing his hand on Zedock’s shoulder. Letho took a moment to let this sink in. It made no sense. The only connection that Letho could see was that they were both leaders, and perhaps their paths had crossed at some point because of that.
“Zedock Wartimer is a good friend to the Tarsi,” the Elder said.
Zedock’s face was white, and Letho thought, just for a moment, that he had seen the old man’s bottom lip quiver. He looked to have aged ten years since Letho had seen him last.
“You think he’s the one you’ve been looking for,” Zedock said. It was more of a statement than a question.
“Yes,” Bayorn answered.
Zedock turned his eyes to the Elder, and saw confirmation in the slow nod of the Elder’s ancient, wrinkled head. “Are you sure?”
“I believe he will succeed…” the Elder paused, “where others have failed.”
Some wordless exchange occurred between the Elder and Zedock. Zedock’s shoulders slumped, and he began to stare glumly at the faux-grain surface of the command desk. All eyes were on him, Tarsi and Eursan alike, watching him as he sat in there in the middle of the command center. They waited for his next word, for no one knew quite how to proceed.
“They’ll hang me for this,” Zedock said in an almost-whisper.
Letho found his choice of words strange, but they all knew what he meant. Letho gazed back at the maze of corridors, and the true nature of the room with the gurney and the one-way mirror came to him in a flash.
“Things will change. The great ones have foreseen it,” said the Elder.
“Well, it would have to be a pretty big change to get me out of this predicament. According to law, I’m supposed to execute every single Tarsi involved in this uprising.”
Bayorn spoke up. “If the Elder is right, a few unruly Tarsi will be the least of anyone’s worry.”
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
The entire station shuddered as if it had been clobbered by the closed fist of a titan. It happened at 19:49 Fulcrum time, while many citizens were finishing their supper in the city commons area. Witnesses would later describe the event using very similar terminology:
A shudder. The sound of metal screaming as it was torn and twisted. Flames belching forth from a great hole in the Envirodome ceiling. Then an eerie silence. Ceiling panels began to blink and flash erratic transmissions in place of a tranquil starlit sky. In time, the dome’s ceiling ceased to display anything at all, as circuits shorted and the hexagonal ceiling panels began to rain down from above. In the Centennial Fulcrum City Envirodome, the sky was falling, and it seemed that someone had opened the gates to Infernus itself.
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Klaxons ripped through the silence with peals of alarm and flashing lights. Zedock’s computer panels lit up, lights blinking and hard drives whirring. The chief rose to his feet in a rather comical display of rotund grace.
“What the hell?” he exclaimed. “We’ve got some sort of hull impact on the environmental dome.” His fingers moved over the keyboard, coaxing data from various sensors built into the Fulcrum’s infrastructure. The inspectors’ building shuddered as flaming panels of the Envirodome began to rain down.
“The outer hull has been pierced. How can that be?” he asked no one in pa
rticular. His fingers continued their hypnotic dance across the keyboard.
“It is an ancient ship. Older than the Fulcrum stations,” the Elder said.
“What the hell is happening? What the hell is he talking about?” Letho exclaimed, resisting the urge to leap up and down.
Zedock ignored him, eyes fixed on the readouts before him. “Shield shutters are closing. Self-mending has begun, but there is a blockage at the front quadrant of the Envirodome.”
He typed in a few short keystrokes. An image of the Centennial Fulcrum appeared on the main screen. A small dark shape had attached itself to the bulbous front end of the station. It looked like a confused remora that had attached itself to a shark’s nose.
Letho was flabbergasted. How could the Elder be so calm? The other Tarsi were stirring, exchanging fearful glances with one another. A low, nervous chatter had erupted between them all. But the Elder just stared at the readout with a serene expression, the blues and reds of warning signals reflected in his golden eyes.
The camera shifted to a bird’s-eye view of the Envirodome. Directly above the Civil Services Building loomed a yawning black maw wreathed in smoke and embers, contorted metal girders, and exposed, sparking wire. Black shapes began to drop from the tear, too fast for the camera. Thuds from above, through feet of granite, let them know where the objects had landed. Letho counted four impacts in total.
“Who’s this fella?” Zedock asked.
Zedock’s camera zoomed in on the lead figure. He was Eursan in form, broad-shouldered and garbed in some sort of archaic black armor that would have looked more at home on a medieval field of battle. Emblazoned on his chest plate were two demonic figures flanking a burning heart wrapped in thorns. Long black hair, iridescent as volcanic glass, capped a strong face. His jaw was hidden under a long black beard braided into thick ropes. Behind him flowed an obsidian cape, edges trimmed in vibrant crimson. There was something off about the way he moved. Letho couldn’t quite put his finger on it; his movements were slippery, like muck from a corpse wagon sliding downhill.
“This is absolute insanity. How the hell is everyone so calm right now?” Letho shouted. “There are people jumping in through a hole in our ship and landing on top of the police building!”
“Easy now, bruin,” Bayorn said in Tarsi, placing a hand on Letho’s shoulder. The combination of his touch and the sound of Tarsi sing-speak comforted Letho, but not much.
“That one wears the sigil of the corrupted one,” the Elder said, pointed a finger at the caped figure. Letho followed his finger, and saw that the ones behind the caped figure wore sleek black jumpsuits of unknown design. To his untrained eye their uniforms looked like military drop-ship trooper gear he had seen in film reels, Eursan relics of vanished military might. The gear appeared to be heavily customized.
Letho’s eyes settled on one of the invaders whose white hair was pulled back in a severe topknot, the sides and back shorn to the skin. Through the pixilation of the display Letho could see swirling red and black tattoos on his pale face, framing cruel eyes and a rictus grin.
A fifth impact caused a crack to appear in the ceiling above. Dust, plaster, and shards of broken tile rained down on Letho, the Tarsi, and the chief.
“What the hell is that?” Zedock exclaimed, staring at the screen.
The Jolly Roger strode forward, each footfall cratering the marble roof of the Civil Services Building. It raised its arms, and Letho watched as twin chain guns began to spin. The low, gut-churning rumble-purr of automated fire filled the air, and the camera through which Zedock observed the interlopers ceased to be.
“Boys, get the rifles! Riot shields, armor plates, and faceguards for everyone!” Zedock shouted into his com unit, rising from his groaning seat. “Do we have any breach charges left? We’re going to need them to take that big bastard down. Our pea shooters ain’t gonna pierce that armor.”
The more excited Zedock became, the more exaggerated his drawl became. More inspectors were rousing themselves from the floor now that the threat of being slapped back down by the Tarsi no longer existed.
“Sir, won’t those damage our own hull?” asked a nearby engineer.
Zedock shot him a burning glance. “Son, you got a better idea?” he drawled.
“I’ll grab some on the way out,” said the engineer, his smile sheepish.
The chief shouted at the other station inspectors, who still seemed uncertain. “Let’s go, shitbirds! Lock and load!”
“My brethren and I will assist you,” said Bayorn.
The Tarsi shouted something in their own language. It started low, then rose high, trilling, then back to a low subfrequency that made Letho’s hair stand on the back of his neck. Even those who had no knowledge of Tarsi-speak had no doubt what this shout meant. It was a war cry. Some of the men looked at the Tarsi with hatred in their eyes, and Letho could see the same look on many of the Tarsi’s faces. Tension filled the room, and for a moment Letho feared that a skirmish was going to break out in the command center.
“Hell yeah!” shouted one of the inspectors. His nose was dripping blood, but he was grinning as he raised his fist to the air. The Eursan’s shout broke the tension. Men and Tarsi who had been glaring before were nodding now. Letho sighed in relief.
“Well, what are we waiting for?” Zedock shouted.
“Yes,” answered Bayorn. “Together we will spill the blood of the interlopers!”
TWELVE - Blood on the Fake Cobblestones
“Dwellers of the Centennial Fulcrum, hear me,” said Alastor.
His low baritone swept through great domed epicenter of the station and reverberated off the walls. He could see in his mind that people were starting to turn on their wall screens, desperate to see the cause of the commotion.
Drawn to spectacle, they come.
Alastor leaped down several stories to stand at the top of the stairs that led to the towering front doors of the Civil Services Building. His progeny followed, stepping down off the building as easily as if stepping off a sidewalk curb. Above them the Jolly Roger remained on the roof, a sentinel, training his twin cannons on anything that moved.
Alastor addressed the gathering crowd. “My name is Alastor Wyrre, and I have come to bring you peace. Peace of servitude, or the peace of death.” There was a general din of confusion and fear from the people below.
He flashed them a forced smile that was more grimace than expression of mirth. “I come in the name of our Lord and Father, to take any into our fold who would become His disciples. Worry not; I assure you that our ship has withstood the impact, as it was designed for such incursions.”
The one with the tattoos chuckled, a mirthless sound like rats skittering down a decrepit well.
“Have no fear, good citizens; my friend Crimson Jim is a gentle soul. Lest you find yourself at the end of his blade.”
And now for a volunteer.
Alastor reached out to the crowd that had begun to pool at the bottom of the steps. He raised his hands above his head and began to mutter in some foul, abandoned language. His consciousness reached out in ripples, searching for a penetrable mind.
There he is. His name is… Baran.
A Fulcrum station citizen stepped out from the crowd and began to mount the steps that led to the top of the temple where Alastor stood like a mad priest. The man walked as though each foot was caked in concrete, his shoulders trembling, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at his side. His eyes never left Alastor’s, as though they could not, would not, look away. Twice the man attempted to divert his path, but with a gesture of his hand Alastor brought him back on course.
“Ah, Baran Gall!” Alastor said. “How good of you to come. You have a question?”
“What sort of servitude would we be engaging in?” Baran asked.
“A great question, from a no-doubt-stunning intellect,” Alastor replied, his diction concise but almost lazy.
Below, the crowd murmured with nervous laughter.
“We need people to work for us, to help us maintain our ship. Just as you do on the Centennial Fulcrum.”
Baran nodded, and offered an almost imperceptible, trembling bow. Alastor grasped the man’s shoulder just as he turned to join the Fulcrum citizens below.
“Oh, there is one more, tiny detail,” he said, turning back to face his audience. “From time to time, we will require a donation of precious...” Alastor paused. His eyes fell on Baran’s jugular vein as it pulsed under his skin like a fat worm. “…fluid from those who to choose to serve us. Nothing you will notice, just a pinprick, and a few quarts later, it’s over.”
“What do you mean our flu—”
Before Baran could finish his sentence, Alastor’s hand was entangled in his thinning brown hair, pulling his head back. Alastor’s jaw issued a popping sound as it snapped open, the lower jaw seeming to dislocate as his mouth widened. A tongue like a bundle of snakes darted from between his teeth, moving closer to Baran Gall’s face. Gall screamed as the bundled flesh unfurled, revealing itself to be a series of tentacle-like protrusions, each capped with a translucent barb. The barbs shot forth, embedding themselves in Baran’s chest, face, and neck. At first he attempted to shove and kick Alastor away, but within moments he fell limp, held in place by Alastor’s hideous strength. A sucking sound filled the air, and Baran did not move again
At the sight of this, Crimson Jim’s eyes widened, and he uttered an exultant groan. Alastor stepped toward the crowd, everything below his nose awash in perverse crimson, his eyes burning like freshly stoked fires. People were moving away in the herd-like clamor that always looked slow and ineffectual from an outside perspective. Alastor flung Gall’s lifeless body aside, watching as it toppled off the stairs and plummeted to the next-highest level of the ziggurat, where it landed with a wet thud before rebounding and tumbling down yet another level.
Fulcrum Page 14
