A radio hissed and crackled, and Letho heard a voice say: “We picked up a group of Tarsi and humans. You find anything? Over.”

“Copy that, Saul. I got one here that had a whole slew of sloths piled on top of him and he’s still alive. You believe it? Over.”

“Miracles abound in the land of the dead and dust,” the one called Saul said.

“Ah, the philosopher speaks!”

“Let’s cut the chatter. Puddin’ heads will be back soon. Heading back to base. Suggest you do the same. Saul out.”

****

“Jeez, look at this guy! He’s torn to pieces. Half his arm ripped right off,” said the male Eursan to the female.

It was if Letho had been shot by a frozen bullet. Had he not been so shocked by what he had just heard, he might have spoken, but he simply couldn’t get his mouth to cooperate. His vision had returned, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

I don’t want to look.

You have to look.

Just get it over with.

He looked.

His left arm had been completely torn away just below the elbow. He brought the remainder of his arm up so that he could see it. The splintered end of his humerus protruded from raw, ragged flesh. Thoughts of food, of uncooked meat, caused his stomach to contract. He turned his head and voided his stomach.

Letho’s paradigm had shifted entirely. Never had he imagined that he would suffer bodily mutilation such as this. He remembered his body being violated by Alastor’s blade, and the wounds he had suffered at the hands of Crimson Jim. But this was different. Those wounds had left behind only jagged little scars. But this… a part of his body had been bitten off. His mind reeled, running through an unpleasant montage of the many ways in which his life had been forever altered. He would never play a musical instrument. He chuckled a little, that this was the first sacrifice that came to mind.

As he sat up to peer out the window of the truck he was stowed in, he was pleased to see that his captors/saviors were fellow Eursans. He hoped that their intentions were good. The man and woman had pleasant faces at least, but their eyes had an emptiness to them that made Letho wonder what horrible things they had seen and done to survive since they had left the Fulcrum station. Still, they looked fairly clean, and their clothes were well maintained, if a little bit worn. They were wearing station inspector armor and were armed with station inspector rifles.

Letho wondered if it was possible to determine if a person was a cannibal just by looking at them. At least they weren’t wearing any jewelry made from human body parts.

You’ve watched too many Eursan post-apoc films, Letho.

“Wonder if he’ll even make it. Risking our asses for these dummies,” the woman said, punctuating her sentence by expelling spit and phlegm from her throat.

“Boss says we have to. Right? We need more hands to hold more guns, remember? Hey, get a load of that sword!”

Hands rolled him over onto his side, divested him of his weapons.

“Don’t touch my sword!” Letho shouted.

Or at least he attempted to. His brain was still disconnected from his mouth. He focused on the mental command, hoping that the message would somehow make it out of his head, through his mouth, and into the minds of the man and woman who were now robbing him.

Sir, do you wish for me to engage anti-theft protocols?

Saladin, in his mind, speaking to him.

What would that entail, exactly, Saladin?

I can administer an electric shock to the person who is now holding me, enough to incapacitate or terminate. Do you wish for me to initiate anti-theft protocols? If yes, please choose incapacitate or terminate.

Letho thought for a moment, then made his decision. He wondered if there was even a point to parsing it all out. Perhaps Saladin could read him well enough to predict the choice. Or even more terrifying, what if Saladin was assisting him in making the choice?

Do not initiate anti-theft protocol.

A wise choice, sir.

“Check out that pistol!” one exclaimed.

“Does that look at all familiar to you?” the other asked.

“Saul’s gonna want to see this,” the first one muttered. Letho heard him key the microphone. “Saul, you better get over here. I got something you need to see.”

“Can it wait? We’re already halfway back to the compound. As you should be, I might add.”

“Well, this fellow appears to have a gun just like yours. If I remember correctly, they once came in a pair.”

There was no response, but far in the distance, Letho thought he might have heard a vehicle come to a gravel-skidding halt.

****

 

The strangers that had rescued him—or robbed him, depending on one’s perspective—had laid him across the seat of a vehicle that smelt of must and old canvas. It wasn’t long before another dusty vehicle appeared, a massive truck, and a small but broad-shouldered man leapt down from the step rail. His uniform was identical to the ones worn by Letho’s rescuers, but somehow it appeared crisper, better maintained. The man’s head was shorn, and his face was smooth from the recent kiss of the razor. His skin was a handsome brownish copper, lighter in places where scars traced across it like cobwebs. His eyes shone like emerald chips, a rather attractive combination with the hue of his skin. His boots shone in the light from the truck’s headlamps, and sweat glistened as it trickled down the attractive curve of his bald head.

This must be Saul.

“Where is it?” he asked.

“Right here, boss,” the woman said, fumbling in a rucksack.

“You better be right,” Saul said. “Otherwise we’re sitting ducks out here for nothing.” The languid yet pointed way that Saul formed his syllables sparked some sense of recognition in Letho, but he couldn’t place it.

“I know, boss, we just figured you’d want to see it,” the man said. After a moment the woman produced a pistol—my pistol—from her rucksack and handed it to Saul. Letho heard Saul hiss through his teeth, and his mouth pulled back into a beaming smile that made Letho like the guy despite the fact that he appeared to be laying claim to Letho’s Black Bear.

“No way in hell I’m holding this damn gun right now. This thing disappeared over ten years ago. Where’s the guy who had it on him?”

In unnerving unison they all turned to look at the door of the truck through which Letho peered. Saul took a few steps forward

“Letho Ferron.”

A jolt of shocked adrenaline. “How do you know my name?” At least his voice was working again.

“This handgun, most likely the last of its kind, was given to a Fulcrum citizen who disappeared over ten years ago. Are you this person?”

“That would be me,” Letho said.

The man in the worn combat dress and mirror-shined jackboots extended his hand, and Letho shook it. The grip was firm, commanding. The duration was a perfect three seconds, and then his boot heels were clocking their way back toward his comrades.

“Good God! What have you been feeding your Tarsi? They look like you could lick a whole battalion of Mendraga overseers! We thought we’d never get them loaded up.” Saul clanged a palmed hand against the side of his truck, which appeared to Letho to be some sort of personnel carrier, or possibly even cargo transport.

“My Tarsi? Where are they?” Letho asked.

“I’m sorry, I do not mean to imply that they are under your ownership—just a poorly chosen figure of speech, I reckon,” Saul said. The way Saul said figure, it rhymed with trigger.

This guy sounds just like Zedock.

“We loaded them up in the back of my truck right here. They’re fine. Just resting. Looks like you guys had a whole herd of muties roll out the welcome mat for you, and I know from experience that that ain’t no way to start off on your home planet, so we’re going to give you folks a do-over. We’re going to take you back to our compound and get you cleaned up and debriefed. Boss man’s going to have lots of questions for you, if you really are Letho Ferron, and if these are the fabled Tarsi who helped him save the Centennial Fulcrum from Alastor and his merry band of bloodsucking dirtbags.”