Letho flicked his fingers toward a nearby wall, and the screen spun across the ether, growing larger as it moved, and ultimately filling the entire wall. The image was of a gruff man, looking frazzled and uncomfortable in front of the camera. His dark mustache twitched as he began to speak in a familiar drawl:

“This message is for Letho Ferron, and the Tarsi in his company.”

Zedock Wartimer paused to dab his sweat-slick forehead with a rather tatty handkerchief.

“You’re probably dead, judging by the fact that we’re currently orbiting Eursus and Alastor’s crew is banging on my door even as I’m recording this message. Lord, I hope it isn’t so. You might be our only hope at this point.

“Alastor’s plan all along was to gain control of the Fulcrum stations. That’s what all the attacks on the Fulcrum stations were about: finding Fintran. I don’t know what was so special about the old-timer, but for some reason, Alastor needed him in order to get the job done. Anyway, Alastor somehow managed to beat us home, and now he has a whole damn operation set up in Hastrom City.”

There was a resounding thud in the background, and Zedock turned to look to the side, alarm clear in his expression.

“I don’t have much time, so I’ll cut to the chase. They’re rounding up all the Fulcrum folk on our station, and the Tarsi as well. We’re going to try to make out of here on a transport ship if we can manage. I’ve got a handful of Tarsi that are rip-roarin ’ and ready to tear some heads off, so I’m going to see if I can oblige them on our way out.”

Another thud, this one mingled with the sound of metal tearing.

“I gotta go, Letho. We’ll be looking for you once we get down to Eursus. If we don’t make it, hell, I guess I’ll see you on the other side. Zedock out.”

 

“Zedock is alive. I’ll be damned!” Letho exclaimed.

“Sir, the video appears to have been recorded roughly ten years ago. Probability of survival decreases significantly over a longer timeline…”

“All right, Saladin, thanks for that information. We’ll take it from here,” Letho said.

“Zedock Wartimer is a good Eursan. Strong, brave. I am sure that he still breathes,” Maka said.

Letho found that he did not really share Maka’s sense of optimism. His estimation of Zedock’s chance of survival fell more in line with Saladin’s. But any chance was better than none. If Zedock had indeed survived, where might he be? Was he in prison? Some sort of work camp? Maybe he had found himself a plot of land, dug himself a well, and was sitting on a porch watching the sunset at that very moment.

“Yeah, I bet he is. Old bastard.”

****

“Bayorn, you’ll never believe what we found!”

Letho and Maka dropped their rucksacks on the floor of the office. Before Bayorn could reply, Letho tossed the uCom display onto a nearby wall, and they all sat in silence as the message from Zedock played again.

“This is great news. There may yet be a chance for us,” Bayorn said.

He opened the bags and surveyed the items inside.His expression did not match his words as he surveyed the small number of food canisters. “The protein synthesizer?” he asked.

Maka shook his head. “Gone. The whole place was stripped. We found the bodies of many Tarsi and Mendraga as well. There was a battle in the underneath.” He glowered at Thresha, who shrugged.

“What do you want from me, slave bear? I wasn’t even there. Am I responsible for every atrocity that Alastor commits?”

“We have a saying in Tarsi that goes like this.” Bayorn sang a few chopped syllables in Tarsi.

“What does it mean?” Thresha asked.

“It means condemnation through association,” Bayorn answered.

“Charming,” Thresha said, using a small bit of wire to scrape nonexistent grit from under her nails. Letho found himself mesmerized by the grooming ritual. Her hands were graceful things, with long and dexterous fingers, the nails carefully manicured, filed, polished, and painted black. Or perhaps all Mendraga had black fingernails. He hadn’t really paid attention until now. Letho realized he was staring and looked away, a small flush rising to his cheeks.

The tension still remained, as though the very atmosphere pulsed with it, a cloud of pent-up frustration that soaked them all to the very core.

“Is there anywhere else we should check for supplies before we head out?” Deacon asked.

“Let’s head up to the domiciles, hit up the cafeterias on the way up,” Letho said. “Might find some better food than this Tarsi slop. No offense, guys.”

“None taken,” Bayorn replied.

Bayorn issued some commands to some of the other Tarsi milling about in the background, and the group filed out into the open area of the Fulcrum station’s loading bay. They passed Deacon’s ship, and soon reached the elevator at the very back of the loading facility. It was large, with thick metal doors marked with yellow and black hazard strips. Inside it were only two buttons: up and down.

They rode the elevator to first level of the Fulcrum station. There was nothing of use there, as it was merely a staging area for the dockworkers. Letho eyed a workers’ break room, but he could see that the cabinet doors yawned open and the shelves appeared to be empty.

“Anything we can use on this floor?” Letho asked Deacon.

“Just work rooms and shower areas, pretty much. Not a lot of food stored down here,” he answered.

Just outside a set of glass doors was a sort of lobby with a reception desk and a waiting area. A coffee machine sat in silence atop a nearby counter, somehow managing to look forlorn, as if it knew that it no longer had a purpose in the world. The familiar bank of elevators that led to other places of work were just outside the reception area, but the ceiling above no longer displayed a sunny sky. The only light came from halogens that hung midway up the walls in sconces. Every third or fourth light no longer functioned, having burnt out with no one to replace them.

“God, I hope they didn’t turn off the shuttle-trains,” Letho muttered to himself. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

They made their way down a nonfunctional escalator that still functioned perfectly as a set of stairs, and down onto the loading deck. Serendipitously, a shuttle waited for them, loading lights twinkling as a dog’s tail might wag, beckoning them to board. It was all too familiar to Letho, and it brought up some relatively unpleasant memories. Memories of drudgery, of a futile search for meaning in a meaningless environment. How things had changed.

But had they really? Here he was again, minding his step as he boarded the shuttle for the nine-thousand-and-first time, still thinking of the man from so long ago that hadn’t minded his step and had tumbled into the open door of the shuttle, ass over tea canister, his cup of coffee sailing through the air. Letho smiled at the memory, even as misgivings filled his mind.

He took a look behind himself and saw the small cadre of Tarsi, Maka, and Bayorn leading a sulking Thresha, who took care to remain a few paces behind them all. Letho felt the reassuring press of Saladin between his shoulder blades, as well as the snug leather belt that Zedock had given him, the forged-steel death machine resting in the supple holster on his left hip. Things had changed, and would continue to do so, in ways that Letho couldn’t yet understand.

He had an inkling, traces of imagery that sometimes danced across the canvas of his subconscious, fantasies of leading a Tarsi army to battle against Abraxas and his hordes. If, at that moment, he had been given a glimpse of the truth, a vision of what was actually to come, he might have broken under the weight of it. But for now, he found solace in putting one foot in front of the other. If things got in his way that needed to be punched or shot, he would do that too.