****

Alastor burst into Abraxas’s private quarters.

“My Lord, the working caste have attacked a group of overseers!”

“What? Why is it not showing up on my scanner?”

“Someone has disabled the security protocols for that sector. I have been unable to establish communications with any of the overseers in that area. Another overseer heard gunfire and went to investigate. He found three dead overseers, and their weapons were missing.”

Terror filled Abraxas, and though it was not a particularly pleasant emotion, he relished it as it surged through his body like wildfire.

“My Lord,” Alastor continued, “what are your orders?” His eyes were wild, full of doubt. Seeing that doubt stung Abraxas more than any level of defiance ever could. It set off a chain reaction in Abraxas’s own mind. What if he had been wrong to scold Alastor earlier? Perhaps he had underestimated his hold over the city.

Letho Ferron is coming, Abraxas thought. Let him come. I shall drink his blood from a bowl made from his very skull.

“Lord Abraxas?”

Abraxas searched his mind, spinning up the ancient organic computer that rested inside his skull. Who had the clearance to disable security protocols? There were only a few. Premier Watt sprang to mind.

No, not her. She wouldn’t dare. She cares too much for her own well-being, he thought. It had to be someone a little bolder. Perhaps older, with less to lose. Someone who had a working relationship with the hammerheads who now appeared to be in full revolt.

“We have a greedy rat in our nest, Alastor.”

At last it came to him, as the infinite coils of his intellect fired with the heat of a billion synapses. In a flash, he knew. He saw the man’s face as though it were projected on his holoscreen.

“Wake Steigen. Drag his putrid carcass out of his pod,” said Abraxas.

“My Lord?”

“Do as I say,” Abraxas hissed.

****

Alastor returned with two Mendraga supporting a bedraggled Steigen, who was too weak to walk. He had lost some weight in his hibernation, yet he did not appear to have aged a bit. His head lolled like an infant’s, and his body seemed incapable of enacting his brain’s commands. Alastor deposited him in a chair before Abraxas.

All of the air seemed to seep from the room as Abraxas studied the chancellor. Abraxas’s eyes burned like hate-filled embers, and his taut lips quivered as he fought to clear his mind enough to speak to the sub-creature before him. He hadn’t bothered to put on his ceremonial headdress, and Steigen recoiled in abject fear as Abraxas turned his naked gargoyle head to the side. When it turned back, a cruel smile wrapped itself around glistening teeth.

Steigen was the first to break the silence. “My Lord, this is very irregular. Is there something wrong?”

Steigen’s inert limbs were trembling, and his face was as white as the paper smock that hung from his shoulders.

“Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” Abraxas snarled. “You and I both know that you have been very bad.”

Steigen’s lips were drawn, quivering. Unbidden tears began to sparkle at the edges of his eyes. “My Lord, this is all very confusing. What are you—”

“SILENCE, FOOL!”

Abraxas rose to his full height, his roar still reverberating in the small room. In a blur he was on Steigen, lifting him from the chair by the throat. “I will destroy every last member of the Corpus Verum for this!” he snarled, putrid spittle misting from his mouth.

Steigen’s eyes whirled in his sockets like a rabbit caught in a snare. Then calm washed over him, and he began to laugh between gasps for air. “You and I both know you can’t do that,” he gasped, his face turning purple. “You can’t control this city without us. You will be unable to maintain order.”

Abraxas roared again, and hurled Steigen through the air. There was a sickening meat-thud as his body collided with the wall. Steigen crumpled to the floor, a limp sack of flesh and pulverized bones.

“Alastor, send the human conscripts, along with a complement of overseers, to the slums. Kill anyone who raises arms against us, including their pathetic families, and burn their homes. Double the watch on the Fulcrum dormitories as well. Lock them down. Kill anyone who attempts to enter or leave. All remaining Mendraga must report to the palace immediately.”

He paused, then added in a cool whisper, “Oh, and I almost forgot: send a detachment to the front gates. We mustn’t forget about the visitors we will have this evening.”

“I eagerly await their arrival, Lord Abraxas,” said Alastor, who seemed to crackle with alacrity now that his master was at the helm.

They exchanged a look, and Abraxas felt the closest approximation of love that his race could experience swell within him as he looked upon his son, his creation. Then Alastor turned, his cloak swirling as he exited Abraxas’s chamber.

****

“Over yonder is a pump waystation,” said Johnny, “and one of the outflow pipes. That’s where we’ll make our entrance. Any questions?”

No response. Letho just nodded, staring at the sky, the light of the moon reflected in his irises.

“One sec,” Johnny Zip said. He leapt out of the razorback and grabbed one of his ordnance crates. It looked heavy.

“Need some help?” Letho asked.

“Nah,” Johnny responded. “I’ll be right back.” He trudged to the pump waystation. After a few minutes, precious ones, he appeared at the entrance of the waystation and began to jog back to the razorback.

“All done?” Saul asked.

“Yessir. I just planted a a little present for Abraxas,” Johnny said, clutching a detonator like a swaddled baby.

“A little explosive to liven up the party?” Letho asked.

Johnny smiled. “There’s a gas line access point in there. If I trigger this detonator, it’ll set off a pretty spectacular chain reaction, all the way down the line, down the middle of Main Street and right up Alastor’s ass. A nice insurance policy. Just in case things go sideways on us.”

“An ace in the hole—I like it.” Saul said. “All right, away we go.” He put the pedal down again, and the razorback sped off toward the waystation.

The full-throated roar of the razorback’s engine masked the exited chitter emanating from a storm drain nearby. They did not see the number of gleaming eyes watching them from the rectangular orifice. The eyes disappeared, and the skittering of claws on concrete filled the night air.

****

Deacon rolled the nav spheres with dexterous hands and brought the warbird into a steep bank, its nose dropping. It was roughly half a rec-ball field in length, all stealth black and baffled edges to confuse radar. Deacon had fallen in love with her at first sight, and now that he had a feel for how she handled, he wanted to make babies with her. She was primarily a troop transport, but she also had plenty of offensive capabilities, including a mean set of 25mm cannons in the aft and fore that could fire eighteen hundred rounds per second—virtually guaranteed to turn Mendraga soldiers into red paste faster than Zedock Wartimer could say shine-ola. Deacon couldn’t wait to try them out.

Deacon thought for a moment about the best friend he had ever known, and he hoped that his friend’s mission would go smoothly—as he hoped that his own would. He thought about the old man Wartimer, and hoped that the old dog was watching from above somewhere, appreciating the way that he stroked the nav spheres and the way he was about to bring a hellstorm upon a few unsuspecting Mendraga.

This is for you, old man. Happy trails, he thought as he pushed the warbird downward through the sky, buffeting the warriors inside as the stratosphere attempted to tear it to pieces. He brought the ship down, low enough that even if Hastrom City had functioning radar systems, the ship would still be undetectable. Two other warships followed suit flying in V formation behind him. Below, a line of razorbacks and armored trucks kicked up a massive dust cloud in their wake as they sped across the abandoned expanse of freeway like a discarded ribbon.