What if Letho had been acting upon his own inherent nature when he had tortured and killed the mutant?

But there was nothing Bayorn could do about these concerns, and it was pointless to waste further thought and worry upon the subject. “Your worries you cannot control, but you can control your worrying,” Fintran had always said.

Bayorn focused on the small group of Tarsi that sat in a ring around him, meditating. They were the last to have received the blood gift. Was it Letho’s blood that had catalyzed his own magnificent transformation, and by extension the transformation of the Tarsis? Or was it Fintran’s? Or was it the combination of the two? Bayorn did not know, and perhaps it did not matter. He had stopped trying to figure out the true nature of the prophecy, where the science ended and the mysticism began. The prophecy would move him and those around him, regardless of his knowledge and understanding.

Today, many Tarsi had come to Bayorn to place their hand upon his. He had opened a wound on the back of his handwith a piece of sharpened scrap metal, and bled freely. And those who touched his blood underwent the transformation—from the shamed form that they had taken on in their time dwelling as servants of the Fulcrum stations, back to the magnificent form of the ancient Tarsi that had so long ago left the planet Tarsis, fleeing Abraxas and his army of corrupted Tarsi. Abraxas had triggered a bloody civil war that had waged for centuries, a war between those who had accepted Abraxas’s gift of eternal life, and those who would rise against him, protecting the old ways and the freedoms encapsulated within them. Brothers fighting brothers. Fathers fighting their sons and daughters. He could see it now, as clearly as the Tarsi that sat before him. The sight was a gift from the Elders who came before, for they were one and the same now, their memories shared. But it would take time for the revelations to come, and Bayorn didn’t know how much he would be able to learn. Only time would tell, and Fintran wasn’t around to ask.

But today the descendants of those early Tarsi had lined up, one by one, eager to shed their former skins and become new. Eager, but afraid.

He could almost hear their thoughts. Will it hurt? What will it be like afterwards? Will I still be the same Tarsi as I was before?

He had periodically freshened the cut in his hand with a shard of metal, grimacing as the blade bit his flesh. And the Tarsi came to him and placed their hand upon his. Bayorn placed his other hand atop theirs, sandwiching it, then sang soothing tones as the first pains of transformation overtook them. He watched in awe as their bodies began to shudder, to grow. It never ceased to amaze him.

“Praise Je-ha!” one of them exclaimed.

“Praise Letho, the Sartan-Sien! May he walk in the light of Je-Ha!” another shouted.

Bayorn smiled at them, and tried not to let the worry in his mind shroud the joy that shone in his eyes.

****

The morning came in a rush. Letho didn’t remember showering or discarding his ruined suit down a trash chute. Everything had been obliterated by a sleep sledgehammer.

“Let’s go, folks, chow time! Rise and shine!” Letho could hear Saul drumming on his door with the incalculable energy of an adolescent.

“All right! I’m up!” answered Letho, rubbing his eyes and peeling a white ghost of evaporated drool away from the corner of his mouth. He fished a suit from the dresser next to his cot. It was very similar to what he had worn on the Fulcrum station, but it was emblazoned with the flag of a nation that was no more: Twenty stars of white and red were emblazoned on a sea of deepest blue, and in the center of the blue sea stood a bear, its claws outstretched, two sabers crossed behind it. The flag of Tajsun, the former state in which Hastrom City resided—before the great nation of Arandos had fallen.

When Letho stepped outside of his room, he found Saul standing at the end of the hallway, his arms crossed impatiently.

Hurry up, asshole. Chow’s on, Letho heard Saul’s furrowed eyebrows say.

“We have about thirty minutes in the cafeteria before the next shift comes in, so we gotta hustle. If you don’t get down to chow on time, you don’t eat,” said Saul. As they made their way toward the stairs, Saul fired another contemptuous look at Letho, letting him know that causing someone to miss chow in Haven might be a capital offense.

But then Saul’s expression softened, almost too abruptly. “Look, I’m sorry about last night,” Saul said. “It ain’t easy keeping this place running, you know. We risk our asses every day, going on runs, trying to keep the warehouse stocked.”

“And you resented the fact that you had to make a run just to rescue us. I get it,” Letho said.

“Well, it ain’t exactly like that. Let’s just say we don’t like going out there for nothin’.”

“Well, I hope I don’t disappoint you.”

“With the legends that are floating around about you? How could you not?” Saul said, laughing.

“Yeah, I know, right?” Letho said, imitating Saul’s laugh with eerie perfection. He punched Saul in the arm, careful to not actually cause bodily harm, but firm enough to get the point across. Saul’s next step was a bit of a stumble, partly from the force of the blow, but more from surprise.

“Two for flinching, Saul! You ever play that game when you were a kid?”

“Yeah, I suppose so,” Saul said, massaging his bicep.

It’s not so fun when it’s happening to you, is it? Ass.

They continued up the stairs in silence. Saul’s mood appeared to improve, as he began to whistle an off-key tune. But it wasn’t quite in time with the clicking sound of his boot heels, which began to drive Letho a little insane. Didn’t everyone more or less whistle in time with their walking pace, or was he just crazy? He grinned as he imagined himself blasting Saul in the head with his fist, driving it through the rock wall beside them.

“Something funny?” Saul asked.

“Nah, just remembered something. What is that tune you’re whistling?”

“You don’t recognize it?”

“Should I?”

“I don’t remember the name… it was one of those popsynths. Something about a Fulcrum guy who wants to ask the girl at his work center out to a movie. Man, I can’t even remember the group’s name anymore,” Saul said, somewhat wistfully.

“Yeah, sounds about right. Most of that stuff was pretty forgettable. I like the vintage stuff,” Letho said. Saul favored him with a wary eye, and Letho smiled, offering him a shrug. “But I guess that stuff was cool, too. Catchy, or whatever.”

“Right,” Saul said. “So anyways, the cafeteria is just ahead. Below us there’s a workout room and training center, complete with a small recball court and a gun range. The recball court also doubles as a close-quarters combat training area.”

The door at the end of the hallway opened as a few citizens spilled out of the cafeteria, and Letho felt sweet ecstasy slide up his nostrils.

“Oh my God, what is that smell?” Letho asked. Competing ambrosial aromas rocketed toward his brain, which in turn commanded his stomach to contract so hard he almost doubled over from the pangs.

“That would be bacon, as promised by our fearless leader,” Saul said.

“Oh, man. And is that eggs? You guys have real eggs too?”

“Yep, we have a small farm set up below the machinery area—hydroponic gardens as well as livestock. A few scrub chicken and pigs, is all. No beefs, I’m sorry to say, but we’re working on it. Haven’t been able to find any uncontaminated stock. Livestock is hard to find out there. Almost as precious as ammunition.”

“I’ve never had a real egg before. Do the real things taste that much better than synthetic?” The obese fellow Letho once was was having a full-on thrombosis in the back corner of his mind.

“You have no idea, pal, but you’re about to find out,” answered Saul.