More trucks exploded as missiles slammed down. The newly arrived Land Rovers rushed onward, driving straight for the retreating groups of warhorses. Clan raiders concentrated their fire on individual Institute soldiers, overwhelming their armor.
Kraken stood perfectly still as the battle raged around them. Kazimir hadn’t moved, his stare fixed on the bloody remains of Bruce’s warhorse, unaware of anything else. Waiting, waiting…
Another clan raider charged past, screaming something at Kazimir, half of it obscenities. Sound and light swooped back into Kazimir’s universe. The raid was over. They were supposed to be leaving. Already, most of the warhorses were galloping back up the slope. He spurred Kraken on, searching the ground ahead. A couple of the Institute soldiers were kneeling beside a clump of thick bushes not twenty meters away, shooting at the raiders on the slope above. Kazimir was never sure if it was him or Kraken who chose the direction, only that it was the right direction. They were suddenly moving toward the soldiers, picking up speed. The soldiers had a few seconds’ warning, both of them turning to gape in consternation at the terrible medieval vision of vengeance bearing down on them. One ran. One brought his rifle up. Kraken lowered its head, the titanium blade of its horn level with the soldier’s chest. Kazimir’s face was contorted into a vicious sneer of triumph as the tip rammed home into the soldier’s force field. There was a brief cascade of sparks, streaming out of his torso like some ephemeral flower. Then the carbon-bonded blade punctured the armor, slicing clean through the sternum and into the soft tissue of the organs inside the rib cage. That was when Kraken shoved its neck back, ripping the blade upward. The soldier’s body left the ground, dragged upward as the blade continued its scythe through his upper half before it pulled out with a last violent shake as Kraken twisted. The torn figure spun lazily through the air, squirting arterial blood as it went.
Kazimir knew he should have felt joy. The sweetness of revenge. But it was a hollow, meaningless victory. It mattered nothing to Bruce that the soldier was dead. He wouldn’t care, wouldn’t rejoice back in West Dee, wouldn’t down glass after glass of beer, would never get his chance with Bethany. Bruce was dead.
As if knowing Kazimir’s confusion, Kraken sped away back up the slope on its own accord, carrying its rider back to the safety of the forest.
The rendezvous spot was a patch of clear ground alongside a small stream, deep in the forest. There should have been twelve McFosters gathered there. Instead, there were only nine. A somber Scott McFoster began the roll call. Kazimir listened to the names with eyes closed and tears leaking down his cheeks.
The roll call was the formal end of every raid. Unless you were there and confirmed your name to the squad leader, there could be no readmission to the clan and its places, the villages, farms, and forts. Too many fighters had fallen in battle only to be caught and enslaved by the Starflyer. Many of them were sent back to infiltrate and kill the very clansmen and women they had grown up among. The roll call prevented such treachery from reoccurring.
“Bruce McFoster?”
The way Scott said it told everyone he already knew.
Kazimir opened his mouth. He was going to shout: Yes, I’m here. I made it back. But all he could see behind closed eyelids was that last sliver of radiance from Bruce’s force field going out. The half-second glimpse of fright rushing across Bruce’s face as he realized. Then there was just a mass of blood and gore descending, the sickening crunch of bone snapping.
“Bruce McFoster, your name will be written in honor on our clan’s memorial for those who have forever escaped the Starflyer’s reach. We pray that your final sleep will be filled with dreams of a better place.”
“Amen,” the others murmured.
“Kazimir McFoster?”
That faint second skin of light extinguished. How long would it have taken Bruce to die as his body was pulped? Who was going to tell Samantha?
“Kaz,” someone urged.
“Here,” he said brokenly. “I’m here.” Which was such a blatant lie. He wasn’t himself, not anymore, a part was missing. It was never coming back.
…
The Manby Memorial Clinic was in Little Sussex, one of the more pleasant residential districts of New Costa. Senior management had their big homes and sweeping gardens here, protectively moated by middle management developments. The shops were small and exclusive, the schools high class, and the facilities generally excellent. There wasn’t a factory within twenty-five kilometers.
The AEC police car swept up to the center’s main entrance and its door opened for Paula. She got out and greeted Elene Castle, the clinic’s deputy manager. As the woman chattered away in a slightly nervous manner, Paula underwent a touch of déjà vu; it wasn’t that long ago she’d visited the Clayden Clinic and Wyobie Cotal. But then, most of her cases involved a visit to medical facilities at some point or other.
Elene took her past the first two blocks, which contained the private recovery rooms, day lounges, and physical therapy spas. Paula was familiar with the setup, her own post-rejuvenation rehabilitations had been spent in almost identical buildings. The Manby had a slightly plusher decor, but the rituals would be the same. Elene Castle was delivering her to the third block, where the actual rejuvenation treatment was conducted. The long corridors were strangely empty. As Paula passed a lounge, she saw a number of recovering clients slumped in deep chairs watching the Augusta StLincoln Cup match. Nursing staff hung around unobtrusively, keeping an eye on the big portal as the two national teams duked it out on emerald grass.
“I’m afraid you will have to wait for another couple of hours,” the deputy manager said apologetically as a collective groan went up from the lounge as StLincoln’s striker missed a shot. “Professor Bose was withdrawn from the actual treatment chamber only forty minutes ago. It will take him a while to recover sufficiently to answer your questions.”
“I can wait that long,” Paula said. On any other world, it would have taken weeks just to get a court order allowing her to interrupt a rejuvenation. But CST was paying for Bose’s fast-tracked treatment, and Augusta was essentially controlled by the Sheldon family. It hadn’t been difficult to arrange.
Paula was shown into a reception room, where a man and a woman were standing waiting. “This is Mrs. Wendy Bose,” Elene said, “and…”
“Professor Truten,” the man said, offering his hand. He was in late middle age, dressed in the kind of suit that Paula guessed had gone out of fashion several centuries earlier. The fabric was a brown tweed, cut with very small lapels. Judging from the tightness across his shoulders the professor must have bought it quite some time ago. “I’ve wanted to meet you for some time, Chief Investigator,” he said. “It’s a shame it had to be under these circumstances.”
“What circumstances?” Paula asked.
“You exert a natural fascination on members of my profession. Unfortunately, I am here to represent Professor and Mrs. Bose.”