“I’m going to kill you with your own gun, you bastard,” Letho spat at Saul.

Letho couldn’t read Saul’s expression. Was it confusion, or relief?

“We’ll see,” Saul said in a detached voice.

Thresha moved to engage Saul, but Letho waved her off.

The two men circled one another, each of them reluctant to strike. At last, Saul drew his pistols and began to fire. Bullets went spang! as Saladin spun, shielding his master. The bullets flew in all directions, sparking off steel and splintering oak.

Do not kill. Incapacitate, he told Saladin.

Letho’s eyes rattled in his skull as Saladin’s display overtook his vision.

Avert left. Target has five bullets remaining.

Determining appropriate velocity and trajectory. Disable target’s left arm.

Okay. Avert right. Disable target’s right arm.

Target is incapacitated. Good work, Letho.

Letho felt no joy in his heart as he stood over Saul. He watched from somewhere near the ceiling as someone else wrenched one of the Black Bear .50 calibers from Saul’s severed hand, and then the other. This person, who looked a lot like Letho, pulled the slide back on his weapon, checking for a chambered round.

Letho stared at Saul for a moment, and an understanding passed between them.

“Take care of my people for me, Letho,” Saul gasped as his lifeblood spurted from the arm-stumps that had once held hands. “I would ask you to tell them I died a noble death, though it is something I have not earned.”

Letho said nothing. He clutched the pistol hard in both hands, like Zedock Wartimer had instructed him to so long ago. The other sat in the holster in which it belonged. Saul leaned forward and placed his forehead against the Black Bear’s muzzle, and closed his eyes.

Letho fired.

Saul collapsed to the floor, his soul exiting through the canal Letho had opened in his skull.

****

Alastor carried his master down dark corridors, the remainder of Abraxas’s personal guard trailing behind him. The hitch in his master’s breath troubled him.

Just get him to the ship and everything will be all right, his mind repeated.

Within moments they had reached the hangar bay. Alarms pealed forth, heralding the coming insurgents and reminding Alastor of the crumbling ground beneath his feet. All that his master had worked for, all that they had built together, was like sand slipping between his fingers.

The old fool. He squandered everything.

Alastor broke into a run, feeling the limp body of his master flop like a child’s doll, listless limbs striking his back with every footfall. Alastor no longer felt the master’s blood running down his back and chest. He did not know if the wound had healed or if Abraxas was bleeding out.

When he reached the medical bay of their ancient Tarsi ship, he placed his master onto a bed and dropped to his knees at his side. He took Abraxas’s cold claw in his hand, attempted to revive him. The master’s eyes fluttered open.

“My son,” Abraxas sputtered.

“Yes, my Lord. I am here.” Agitation rose in Alastor, and a flash of something long forgotten fluttered through his mind. A kind man. A young boy sitting on his knee. A father. His father.

“My time draws to a close, my son. I cannot heal this grievous wound. I must feed from you if I am to survive. You will be weakened, but you will survive. Together, we will survive.”

Alastor’s body began to fill with anger. This creature had dominated his life, and he had willingly done his bidding at every step of the way. Yet never had Abraxas truly shown any sort of appreciation for him. Alastor thought again of the glorious empire they had created, and how this foolish creature in his arrogance had allowed it to crumble and slip between his fingers.

“I don’t have much longer. Please, do what I ask of you,” Abraxas whispered.

Alastor stepped back from the cot and sneered. “You old fool!You ruined everything. And now you ask me to give you my lifeblood? Why? So you can continue to blunder your way through another millennium?”

“Alastor, please, my son.”

“I am not your son, and you are not my father. You are a beast that deceived me in my darkest hour and turned me against all that I ever loved. I will listen to you no longer.”

As if in resignation, Abraxas’s head lolled to the side, exposing the weak pulse of his jugular vein. Alastor’s reaction was instant, involuntary. He opened his mouth and greedy feeding appendages spilled forth. Memories were flooding back. Images of his former self. He saw a young boy, garbed in fur and covered in his own blood, standing inside this very ship; he saw Abraxas’s feeding tubes slide forth and pierce the boy’s skin; he saw the injection of the poison that would transform that boy into the monster he was today.

How the tables had turned.

The barbs of Alastor’s appendages pierced leathery skin, and ecstasy filled him. Jets of a god’s blood spurted down his throat, filling his body with a world-shattering thrum. He felt ageless wisdom invading his brain, transforming it. Neurons exploded and multiplied, re-forming his brain as its matter expanded, ever folding and creasing. He saw everything that his master had ever seen, knew all that his master had known.

But, to his chagrin, it came at an unexpected price.

Behold, the price of your hasty decision. You and I are now one, Alastor. Wherever you go, so shall I. I shall haunt your every thought, scold your every decision. Now, look deep inside your mind. See our home planet. You must go there, and seek out the last of our kind.

“I no longer have to do as you say, Abraxas! You are nothing to me!” Alastor cried, looking down at the carcass of an ancient being that was already beginning to disintegrate.

You will do as I say!

A great spasm of pain raced through Alastor’s brain, as though someone had drawn a knife between the two cortexes. He fought it, and with all of his mental ability he managed to suppress the presence of Abraxas in his mind. The voice grew softer, and then altogether silent. The pain faded. He could hold Abraxas’s consciousness at bay, but he did not know for how long.

Alastor left the medical bay and headed to the ship’s navigation deck. There, he set a course for Tarsus.

SEVENTEEN - Hit Reset

The ground beneath Bayorn’s feet began to vibrate, and a strange, bloodcurdling howl filled the air. Cheers were replaced by looks of confusion and mounting terror.

A nearby manhole flipped open, and the hideous, malformed head of a mutant appeared. Bayorn looked around him, and saw more mutants pouring forth from every direction. They came from manholes and drainage ducts, scrambling to force their bodies through the small rectangular orifices, tearing the flesh from their own backs; they rushed from the buildings and climbed over the walls. It was as if a dam had broken, and wave after wave of mutants washed over its remains.

And then, a great explosion shook the very earth underneath their feet. The city streets were lit with plumes of fire that rocketed hundreds of feet into the air. Buildings all around the city center toppled and fell, and a wagon wheel of fire incinerated all who were unfortunate to be too close Many of the mutant creatures perished, and Bayorn counted each of their deaths as one more notch toward victory.

But despite the sudden chaos that had overtaken the battlefield, the Jolly Roger continued his withering fire on the army of Tarsi, hammerheads, and Eursans below. Among the smoke, cinders and ashes, the mutant creatures continued to swarm. Bayorn’s heart sank as he surveyed their numbers. The explosion had taken many of them, but there were still more than enough to outnumber the remaining fighters in his charge.