“Yes, I would like to have that gun,” Saul said at last, in a near-whisper.

“You have done well. Come and claim your prize.”

Saul’s head turned, his eyes dazed. He walked over to Alastor and took the .50 caliber from his hand.

This is it! He’s going to blow Alastor away, and we’ll take them, Letho thought. But Saul holstered the gun quietly. He now owned the complete pair. Realization hit Letho like someone had dumped the shattered remains of one of Hastrom City’s skyscrapers on top of him.

“You son of a bitch,” Letho said to Alastor, though his eyes were locked on Saul. “This must be your inside guy.”

“That is correct. I have been negotiating with Saul for quite some time, trying to find some way for our two societies to coexist. The price was you, Letho, delivered to my master, alive,” Alastor said.

Now Letho turned to Saul. “You killed him, didn’t you?” he shouted. “You killed my father.”

“He died of a heart attack, Letho, you know that,” Saul said, his face blank, his voice devoid of inflection.

Letho roared like an animal in a snare. The tears began to flow, and his body convulsed with sobs. Thresha, Bayorn, Deacon, and Maka were all going to die because he had put his trust in the wrong person. He had had led them all to their demise. Alastor and Abraxas had outsmarted them all.

“Come now, Letho, all is not lost,” Alastor said, his voice both smug and condescending. “I think you’ll find that Saul has made the smart move. It’s not too late to be smart, you know. Saul here understands that wars are won not by sacrifice alone, but by compromise. All that bloodshed and killing is certainly a means to an end, but so out of fashion. Do you understand that, Letho?”

“Speak to me no more, lap dog of Abraxas,” Letho said in his best Tarsi.

Alastor’s eyebrows rose. “My my, you might have missed your calling. Perhaps instead of pursuing a career as a messianic figure you should have pursued a career in the music industry. What a lovely voice you have!”

“I still have your word that Haven will not be touched?” Saul asked, interrupting.

“That and more. We’ll open up trade lines, just as we agreed upon. Your little enclave will become a city. Hastrom City’s first true satellite.”

“You idiot,” Letho spat. “Do you really think he’s going to keep his end of the bargain?”

“Oh, Letho, this isn’t a videodoc,” Alastor said. “I actually do intend to keep my end of the bargain. The agreement Saul and I have brokered is mutually beneficial. Besides, I think there has been enough double-crossing for a time. Don’t you, Saul?”

Saul said nothing. His eyes cut from side to side, moving so fast they almost appeared to vibrate, as if he were processing something. Perhaps the reality of what he had done had struck him at last.

“Let’s go,” Saul said to the floor.

“Overseers, please restrain Mr. Ferron. Make sure the restraints are tight,” Alastor said.

“Get up,” one of the overseers barked as he forced Letho to his feet. Letho reeled like a drunk, his eyes bleary and crazed. The overseers quickly pinned his arms behind his back and clapped carbon-steel manacles on his wrists.

No one spoke during the short march to the elevator that led to the upper palace levels. Letho’s mind was returning to him though, his sorrow consumed by the raging furnace in the pit of his belly. He looked at Saul in disbelief. The man that he had come to think of as a brother was now striding in lockstep with the enemy. Letho prayed to any god that would listen for a chance to end the man’s existence.

Saladin, he remembered. But not yet.

After a short trip up in the elevator, the doors opened to Abraxas’s private quarters, which appeared to take up the entire top floor of the palace.

“Alastor, Saul! Come in,” said a voice from a thousand children’s sweat-soaked nightmares. “Bring me my prize.”

****

Bayorn and his army marched up Appian Thoroughfare, all that remained between them and Abraxas’s palace was Abraxas’s personal guard. But this last line of defense was made up of the elite—Abraxas’s most ruthless and cunning overseers—and they were dug in deep, behind sandbags and swiveling turrets.

They opened fire on Bayorn’s army.

Bayorn, the Tarsi, and the hammerheads took cover behind automobiles, park benches, anything that could deflect or slow a bullet. They were pinned down, suppressed by a constant hail of bullets. They returned fire sporadically, but anyone who dared to leave cover for too long was quickly dispatched by the enemy. The personal guard was too well entrenched; they had the superior ground. The progress of Bayorn’s army ground to a halt.

So close.

Then the clouds above seemed to part, and the eyes of Wagner’s angry valkyries transformed the night-lit cityscape to near daylight. The warships had arrived. Their automated searchlights moved in tandem with their targeting systems, lighting up turret emplacements with a barrage of 25mm automatic hellfire.

Energized by the sight, Bayorn leapt out of cover, roaring, firing his rifle at an overseer who had poked his head from behind a sandbag wall. The overseer collapsed as Bayorn’s bullets raked across his face.

Inspired by their leader’s courage, Bayorn’s army rushed to follow, surging from behind various cover spots. The tide had once again turned, and the army pressed forward.

But a familiar sound filled the air, and Bayorn’s hackles began to rise. The thud-thud of heavy footfalls rattled Bayorn’s teeth together.

This cannot be, he thought.

And then it appeared at the top of the stairs, its twin arm cannons cycling up.

The Jolly Roger.

The hulking, monstrous weapon of the Mendraga.

A weapon that had been destroyed.

 

“Hey assholes, remember me?” a voice shouted over a loudspeaker. “Where’s that Letho Ferron guy? I want to give him a piece of my mind.”

The voice was familiar to Bayorn, and as he peered carefully through the glinting faceplate of this new Jolly Roger’s helmet, he realized that the face, too, was familiar.

Swirling in the green wraith-smoke that powered the armor suit was the grinning visage of Crimson Jim.

****

“What the hell is that thing?” Deacon said from his warbird. He had seen powered armor before in videodocs, but there was something off about this one. It didn’t seem to have anyone piloting it.

He summoned his uCom, put in a call to Letho, and patched in the feed from his warbird’s camera. Then he panned the camera across the battlefield and zoomed in on the Jolly Roger.

“Letho, not sure if you’re in there, but as you can see, it’s getting pretty hairy out here. Could use some help!”

There was no reply.

****

“Welcome, Saul. Welcome, Letho,” Abraxas said as if greeting old friends. Thresha stood by his side, wearing an ornamental gown that glinted with jewels and gold thread.

Letho had seen images of Zetus, ancient Eursan culture’s representation of absolute evil, and he couldn’t help but feel that the creature before him must have been the inspiration for such illustrations. Abraxas’s face was uncovered, and the sight was nothing short of ghastly.

Alastor quickly knelt before his master and motioned for Saul and Letho to do the same. Saul obeyed, dropping to his knees, his face still blank. But Letho stood, defiant.

Abraxas fixed him with a stare. Letho detected no movement, no hint of action on Abraxas’s part, but he felt an unseen force press down on his shoulders. Against his will, he was forced to his knees.

“That’s better.” Abraxas smiled. “You may rise, my sons.”

Then Abraxas turned to Saul. “Saul Wartimer, in exchange for your services, and the delivery of Letho Ferron, I hereby decree that your silo community will become part of Hastrom City. Under our protection, your community will thrive and flourish. Over time your people will reclaim the territories surrounding your silo, and together we will work to restore order to this broken world.”