Baer muttered, “The girl might give us a location, Mong. Hold up. Right now Branx and Madler are working her over for the truth, loosening her up, if you know what I mean.”
“Fool! I don’t care what your slackwit goons are doing to the bitch. I want my merchandise.”
“Alright, hold your horses.” Baer held up his hand. “I’m working on her. If you hadn’t been so impulsive and brought the Megalians to their knees so early, I’d have caught up with this Rusco scum long ago on Skeller’s Reach—”
Mong’s patience wore thin and his hand flicked out. I blinked as the air went cold and dark. An invisible force seemed to lift Baer up by the throat and slam him against the wall. The thug gurgled, coughed, snorted, his eyes bulging like a frog’s. His hairy face went beet red. Mong thundered out a curse. “You stupid bungler! You were the shipping agent. Your job was to secure those Mentera techs back in Hoath. You didn’t. The amalgamators were highest priority. It’s been weeks since you promised them.”
“I—know, M-Mong. S-sure,” Baer croaked, his voice a high-pitched twang. His feet dangled inches from the bare floor. “Just a minor detail. Rusco’ll be squawking like a hen before long.”
“I don’t see him squawking like a hen.” Mong released the thug with whatever voodoo powers he had, and the hate-mongering Baer fell to his knees, clawing at his throat, like a drowning man.
A prolonged howl came from the adjoining room, a thin wail of helplessness like the cry of a tortured animal. It could have easily been Wren’s or Dolgra’s, and I shuddered. A lament that might come from my own throat soon enough. Mong seemed to pay no heed.
“I came here on a call that I would get results and my tech in my hand. My devotees are waiting for me on Z-Mezarath—you know that, to rally them to the true path.” He thrust a finger high. “One day my religion will spread throughout the galaxy, as popular as the Christ savior of old.” His voice had risen to a self-righteous pitch.
“Sure, Mong, sure. You know I’m your staunchest supporter.”
“Shut up. That’s enough of your fatuous words for one day.”
A beeper rang on the warlord’s communicator. He snatched at it. “What?” he growled. His face darkened.
“Unacceptable, Ry-yin! Fix it.” He cut the connection. “Is there no end to incompetence?” He exhaled a dark breath. “The war on Questra is going badly, Baer. I must go. See that this worm talks or you’ll be the next in that chair.”
The star lord’s contemptuous glance brushed me a warlock’s hex as he made for the exit. “A mere flesh baby,” he chided in contempt, shaking his head. “A few bruises, a missing hand, and some bodily discomfort and the weakling mewls like a newborn child.”
I wanted to fling out an insult but my tongue could form no words, only gurgles.
“If you experienced the primal initiations on my home planet, Rusco, you’d be laughing right now—a man of iron, daring me to bring on more.” He gave a final shake of his leonine head and flung open the door. “You are not worthy of my teachings.”
He strode out and Baer flinched, his burning bearish eyes raking me with sinister fervor. He reached out with his prosthetic hand to squeeze my stump of a wrist, the exposed bone and purple flesh. The dirty, rough glove reached high, maybe to pour gasoline on the raw wound, I couldn’t tell. My eyes circled up in agony, even as blackness overcame me.
Chapter 18
I drifted in and out of consciousness, stirred by some distant blast, a thunder clap, or it could have been a faraway mountain exploding. It was all the same.
Wren was beside me, slapping my cheeks, yelling in my ear.
She unstrapped my arms and legs. No, Wren was dead. Her scratched, bloodied face gleamed with sweat and blackened soot and grime. Her leathers were torn, but a wild look blazed in her eye, the other swollen nearly shut, as if she’d been to hell and back. Good old Wren! She had come back.
“TK came through, Rusco. If you want to live, let’s hurry.”
I struggled, hobbling like an eighty year old. Gunfire and blasts echoed down the hall. I was limping with Wren’s supporting arm around my waist down the rubble-strewn corridors, the rat-darkened places, doubled over in pain. More booms resounded from the cracked concrete above and the crumpled steel.
It seemed a million miles we staggered, half dragging ourselves along, my head snapping sideways, peering in horror into one of the nearby storerooms. The door was half ajar. I caught a quick glimpse of Dolgra sprawled there, head pulled back, eyes glazed up in terror. The muscular olive skin body lay half stripped, half naked, the small, petal shaped breasts exposed high on the sun-browned chest. I knew that, despite the denial of my instincts on first meeting, she had been a woman, dressed up in costume and posing as a man, jousting, fighting in a world ruled by males, trying to survive and rise up the ranks in a world ruled by iron fists. Metal picks stuck up her arms and pincushioned her ribs like a sewing-box voodoo doll. I couldn’t look away, let alone imagine the last minutes of her agony. I grimaced and forced my feet on, vowing that I would avenge that brave woman’s sacrifice, if I ever got out of this misery alive. Which didn’t look very likely with half an arm, and the ceiling crumbling over our heads. Bomb fire threatened to kill us all.
Even in my daze, I couldn’t help but realize that Dolgra’s defiance to the end had saved both
