The wheel had to keep turning, after all. The true citizens of his fine city craved the comforts of the technology-infused life they had always known; they were less likely to notice things going awry when their minds were fully occupied with their hi-res screens and tactile-sensory-feedback clickable buttons.

Those above were held in thrall by the fruits of slave labor, while those below were slaves to the labor itself, Abraxas thought.

And then there was this Letho Ferron. The one who could unravel all he had wrought. The supposed savior of both Eursan and Tarsi alike. It was a supreme irony that Alastor himself had created their greatest enemy. When Alastor slew the boy and Fintran with a single sword stroke, he created a blood bond between them. This combination of Fintran’s blood and Letho’s had catalyzed something that had been dormant in Letho—had changed him into something new.

It was said that within the genetic sequence woven into the life seeds they dropped upon lifeless planets, there were bits of code that, when properly aligned, would create beings that were superior to others. Stronger. Faster. More intelligent. Abraxas had seen these bits of code himself as he sequenced the genome of his own race.

Those who had shaped the events of Eursan history most likely had pieces of this code in their genetic makeup. And if Abraxas’s suspicions were correct, this Letho Ferron had won the genetic lottery: he was an indirect product of Tarsi genetic engineering, a perfect being, a genetic failsafe meant to lead his race through their darkest hour.

Abraxas was drawn from his reverie by the abrupt hiss of chamber door. In came Alastor, his handsome face wrought with tension.

“Alastor, my son. What brings you to my chamber in such haste?”

Alastor dropped to a knee in front of Abraxas’s throne and touched his fist to his forehead, eyes cast to the floor.

“Dispense with the formalities. What is it?”

Alastor rose to his feet and fixed his gaze on Abraxas. “I have spoken with my associate in Haven,” Alastor said. “He tells me that Letho Ferron is planning to attack Hastrom City.”

“Very good; let them come. We will be ready.”

“Master,” Alastor said, his eyes wide in confusion. “What are your orders?”

Abraxas waved Alastor off with a dismissive hand. “Don’t look so terrified, young one. This boy presents no threat to us. Alert our men to be on their guard.”

“Lord,” Alastor began, “shouldn’t we be a little more proactive? Perhaps we could send a squadron to this Haven, burn it to the ground?”

“Are you questioning my decision?” Abraxas said, rising from his throne.

Alastor rose to his feet, straightened his shoulders, and stood firm. “Yes, I am, in fact. I do not believe that simply doing nothing is the right course of action.”

“At last, Alastor speaks his mind. My own hand betrays me.” Abraxas reached out with his mind, feeling the very atoms in the air respond to his touch. He brought the air down on Alastor, crushing him down with the very atmosphere.

“If you will not kneel before me, I will force you to,” Abraxas said coldly. “You insolent little worm. After that shameful display in our own church, that you yet dare come before me speaks volumes of your courage, I suppose. You failed me. You let that Ferron creature escape you. Your staggering ineptitude, your inability to subdue one man, has brought shame upon my entire household.”

Abraxas cast his eyes to Thresha, who sat upon her balcony, watching the exchange. She stood up and sauntered into her private quarters, leaving him and Alastor alone.

Abraxas had known that this day would come, and frankly he was surprised it had taken Alastor so long to defy him. And how powerful Alastor had grown. Abraxas found himself struggling a little to force Alastor to his knees, so potent was his subordinate’s rage. It made him stronger.

For a moment, Abraxas felt doubt. It was such a long-forgotten sensation that he didn’t quite know what to make of it at first. “You think you know better than me, little Eursan? I pulled you out of that shit pile your people called a village and made you what you are, but I suppose you’ve forgotten all of that, haven’t you?” Abraxas sneered. Now he, too, had grown angry. As the rage flowed through his body like wildfire, he was almost thankful that Alastor had defied him. For the opportunity to savor even the faintest trace of the emotions he had sacrificed for his longevity was sublime indeed.

“I never meant to—” Alastor stammered. “All I’m saying is—”

“Shut your stupid little mouth, whelp!” Abraxas roared. Alastor’s body lifted into the air, held at the throat by a unseen vise. “As if you could tell me anything I don’t already know, haven’t already pondered. Long have I lived. Much have I seen. What could you possibly know in that pathetic little clutch of nerves and synapses that my mind hasn’t already considered?”

Alastor continued to claw at the unseen hand around his neck. So strong were the instincts that drove his pitiful race. Desperately struggling as if he still breathed, as if closing off his windpipe could harm him.

Abraxas scoffed. “I want them to come. I have been waiting for them. Do you have so little faith in your lord that you would question me? I will show our people the true might of our race when I crush this pathetic uprising!” Abraxas roared.

He let go of Alastor at last, who collapsed to the floor, prostrate, gasping for air that he didn’t need.

“And this Letho Ferron. The people will abandon any notion that he is godlike when I drag him out to the town center and drink every last drop of his blood.”

“Yes, master,” Alastor said. “Please forgive me for my insolence.”

“Of course, my child. I forgive you, as always, though your lack of faith wounds me. Now get out. I can no longer bear the sight of you.”

Alastor nodded, dusted himself off and straightened his clothing, trying in vain to regain some shred of his dignity. As he turned to leave, Abraxas could feel his thoughts, seething and roiling. Thoughts of murder, of rebellion. It would pass. It always did.

****

“Come in,” Letho said.

Zedock opened the door to his son’s room. “What you up to?” he asked.

“Nothing, just thinking. Lots to think about.”

“I know. Tomorrow’s going to be one hell of a day.”

“Yeah,” Letho said.

“Sure wish I could go with you. But this old gut of mine don’t fit too good under a ballistic vest anymore.”

Letho laughed, and Zedock’s soul danced at the sound of it. Love poured out of him. He wanted it to be tangible so that he could in some way share it with Letho. But being a reserved man, he withheld it. He didn’t know it, but Letho could see it in the twinkle of Zedock’s eyes, and felt the same love as well.

“Well, they need you here to hold down the fort.”

“You’re right, I reckon.” Zedock sighed, drummed his fingers on his thighs, and looked aimlessly around the room. “Listen, I just wanted to say, in case… well, you know…” Zedock struggled with his words. “I’m proud of you, Letho. I wish things could have been different. I wish I could have been there for you when you were growing up. Like a father should.”

Letho looked up at Zedock, and their eyes locked. Zedock could see so much of himself in the boy, from the shape of his eyes to the firm jut of his jaw—though Zedock’s own jaw was hidden under flaps of hanging, aged skin. They even had the same nose.

“But you were there for me, watching over me,” Letho said. “I wish I could have been with you too, but you did good. I turned out pretty all right, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did, son,” Zedock said.

Letho stood up from his bunk, and they met in an embrace. Zedock held his son close, squeezing him tight, trying to suck in all the goodness of it, just in case it was the last one they would share.