Bayorn, the Tarsi, and the hammerheads took cover behind automobiles, park benches, anything that could deflect or slow a bullet. They were pinned down, suppressed by a constant hail of bullets. They returned fire sporadically, but anyone who dared to leave cover for too long was quickly dispatched by the enemy. The personal guard was too well entrenched; they had the superior ground. The progress of Bayorn’s army ground to a halt.
So close.
Then the clouds above seemed to part, and the eyes of Wagner’s angry valkyries transformed the night-lit cityscape to near daylight. The warships had arrived. Their automated searchlights moved in tandem with their targeting systems, lighting up turret emplacements with a barrage of 25mm automatic hellfire.
Energized by the sight, Bayorn leapt out of cover, roaring, firing his rifle at an overseer who had poked his head from behind a sandbag wall. The overseer collapsed as Bayorn’s bullets raked across his face.
Inspired by their leader’s courage, Bayorn’s army rushed to follow, surging from behind various cover spots. The tide had once again turned, and the army pressed forward.
But a familiar sound filled the air, and Bayorn’s hackles began to rise. The thud-thud of heavy footfalls rattled Bayorn’s teeth together.
This cannot be, he thought.
And then it appeared at the top of the stairs, its twin arm cannons cycling up.
The Jolly Roger.
The hulking, monstrous weapon of the Mendraga.
A weapon that had been destroyed.
“Hey assholes, remember me?” a voice shouted over a loudspeaker. “Where’s that Letho Ferron guy? I want to give him a piece of my mind.”
The voice was familiar to Bayorn, and as he peered carefully through the glinting faceplate of this new Jolly Roger’s helmet, he realized that the face, too, was familiar.
Swirling in the green wraith-smoke that powered the armor suit was the grinning visage of Crimson Jim.
****
“What the hell is that thing?” Deacon said from his warbird. He had seen powered armor before in videodocs, but there was something off about this one. It didn’t seem to have anyone piloting it.
He summoned his uCom, put in a call to Letho, and patched in the feed from his warbird’s camera. Then he panned the camera across the battlefield and zoomed in on the Jolly Roger.
“Letho, not sure if you’re in there, but as you can see, it’s getting pretty hairy out here. Could use some help!”
There was no reply.
****
“Welcome, Saul. Welcome, Letho,” Abraxas said as if greeting old friends. Thresha stood by his side, wearing an ornamental gown that glinted with jewels and gold thread.
Letho had seen images of Zetus, ancient Eursan culture’s representation of absolute evil, and he couldn’t help but feel that the creature before him must have been the inspiration for such illustrations. Abraxas’s face was uncovered, and the sight was nothing short of ghastly.
Alastor quickly knelt before his master and motioned for Saul and Letho to do the same. Saul obeyed, dropping to his knees, his face still blank. But Letho stood, defiant.
Abraxas fixed him with a stare. Letho detected no movement, no hint of action on Abraxas’s part, but he felt an unseen force press down on his shoulders. Against his will, he was forced to his knees.
“That’s better.” Abraxas smiled. “You may rise, my sons.”
Then Abraxas turned to Saul. “Saul Wartimer, in exchange for your services, and the delivery of Letho Ferron, I hereby decree that your silo community will become part of Hastrom City. Under our protection, your community will thrive and flourish. Over time your people will reclaim the territories surrounding your silo, and together we will work to restore order to this broken world.”
“Thank you, my Lord,” Saul said.
“Lord,” Letho scoffed.
“And you, Letho, will you join us? I could use a man of your talents.”
Letho scowled.
Abraxas shrugged. “Your friends are marching on the temple as we speak. It is likely that they will all perish in the conflict. But you have the power right now to save them from this terrible fate. Their names are… Maka and Bayorn, Ibelieve?” He smiled at the look of recognition on Letho’s face. “Yes, I see that I am right. Right about now, they are facing off with my good friend, Crimson Jim.”
No. How?
“Jim?” Thresha interjected. “He’s… alive?”
“In a sense, my dear. So sorry I forgot to tell you. He has taken Cantus Wheatley’s place as the new Jolly Roger.” You’ve all seen the devastating power of this being. Surely, Letho, you would want to save your friends from such a horrible fate. Swear fealty to Abraxas, and he will stop his attack.”
“I already told you, Mendraga. I have no more words for you,” Letho growled.
“Such lovely Tarsi-speak. In all my years I have never heard it produced so accurately by a human voice,” Abraxas said. “You are truly remarkable, Letho. Think carefully now, for your friends’ lives are in your hands.”
Letho felt Abraxas’s vile presence inside his head, felt his claws rifling through his thoughts and memories.
“Your dear friend Deacon. And Thresha? Ah yes, you are quite fond of her, aren’t you? You could spend the rest of your life with her. You could become one of us, and join her in eternity. Claim her! She is your prize.”
“Don’t listen to him, Letho,” Thresha cried.
“Silence, girl!” Abraxas shouted.
“Get out of my head, Abraxas,” Letho said.
“Perhaps we could reverse her condition—make her human again. The two of you could raise a family. Help us rebuild this world. All you have to do is swear allegiance to me.”
“No,” Letho said with a sneer.
“How dare you!” Alastor shouted. “Whelp, how dare you speak to our lord with such insolence?” But Abraxas waved him off.
“We are not the monsters you imagine us to be, Letho. In the end, we want what you want. To live, to flourish, to know peace. This is something that Eursans and Tarsi alike have denied us for millennia. I will concede that our methods of feeding and reproducing are… unique to our species, but are we so different in our ultimate aims? There must be some sort of accord that we could reach.”
Letho shook his head. No more words.
“I could tell you things you wouldn’t believe, Letho. My eyes have seen the comings and goings of many races over the vast expanse of time. I can tell you about the Tarsi, and the connection between our three races. Then you might see that we are not so different as you believe.”
Alastor turned to his master. “While we are on the subject of past occurrences, Lord Abraxas, I have something for you.” He withdrew Saladin from behind his back with a flourish, and Letho felt his stomach turn.
No. He is mine.
“I bring to you a gift I thought lost to us when this young man invaded our ship so long ago. May I present Saladin: Officer’s Tactical Package TM, a fitting blade to hang at your side.”
Alastor knelt and presented the blade to his master. Abraxas accepted it.
And Letho saw his opportunity.
Abraxas held the sword at eye level and pulled it a few inches from the scabbard, observing the flawless metal. The lead inlays began to blink a warning in red, but Abraxas paid no heed. “A noble gift. Thank you, Alastor,” he said.
Saladin, initiate anti-theft protocol.
A high-pitched whine filled the air. All present felt a surge of energy, and the hairs on their arms and necks stood at attention. Great blue gouts of electric current fractured the air. Abraxas’s body began to shudder, wracked with currents of energy. Saladin clattered to the floor.
Letho summoned strength from the great well within him and pulled his hands forward, against the manacles that held him. He gritted his teeth as the bones in his hands and wrists compressed, and his own flesh scraped against the carbon-steel and was torn from his hands and wrists. The pain was exruciating, but just a moment, and then it was over: his hands were free.