My attention was taken by the old man. He was very striking in appearance. He was tall and spindly with curved black horns atop his head and skin the color of blossoming fire. His eyes were tinted yellow and his irises were the elongated curl of a cat’s.
He had the appearance of an eighty or ninety-year-old and looked every inch of it. What little hair he had on his head was grey and tinted with white.
A walking stick leaned at a lazy angle on the sofa beside him. On its handle was the skull of a small creature. It might have been fully grown or in an early stage of development.
Smiok looked at me over his shoulder as I joined him at his side. He appeared relieved his time was almost up.
The old man looked up at me with his watery blue eyes.
“Ah,” he said. “You must be Trayem Keyon.”
“That’s correct sir,” I said.
“A pleasure to meet you.”
He waved a finger between me and Smiok.
“Do you know each other?” he said.
I glanced at the prisoner and he looked at me. We shook our heads.
“No, sir,” I said.
“That’s interesting,” the old man said, “because Smiok says you’re an undercover agent working for some sinister group seeking to learn information about the comings and goings in this prison. Are any of his accusations accurate?”
Smiok frowned and peered between the old man and me.
“That’s not true,” I said.
“Are you sure?” the old man said, running his fingers through his long white beard and wrapping it around his gnarled finger. “He seems quite sure it was you.”
“I’m afraid he’s wrong,” I said. “I’m not an undercover spy. My life isn’t that interesting.”
“Just for the record, that’s not what I said,” Smiok said. “I said that I heard some of the prisoners whispering rumors about the riot. I never said it was him—”
The old man waved a hand for him to be silent.
“Yes, yes,” he said. “I was testing Trayem. Who knows, we might get lucky.”
I smiled and shook my head.
Smiok, taken slightly aback, smiled along. He stopped abruptly when he saw the old man wasn’t smiling.
The old man leaned back and then rocked forward, shifting his weight onto his walking stick. He pushed as hard as his frail arms would allow him in his attempt to get to his feet.
Smiok stepped forward to help the old man but one of the other armed guards stepped forward first and motioned for Smiok to stay back.
This armed guard was the only female in the group. Her brow was thick with her constant frown and gave her the appearance of a fearsome fighter. She helped the old man up as he shuffled forward on his walking stick.
“A riot took place at this facility,” the supervisor said. “And we’re going to get to the bottom of it. We’re going to ensure it never happens again. That’s why the warden chose me to watch over this facility. I’ve journeyed far and wide, traversed the galaxy, and explored and tasted many of its exotic fruits. There’s never been a facility I couldn’t whip into shape, never been a mission I couldn’t achieve. I will get to the bottom of this riot, whether you help me or not.”
The old man stopped in front of Smiok, the metal tip of his walking stick striking the floor and making a sharp snapping sound. He clutched the tiny skull handle with both hands and leaned forward, using it as the third leg of a tripod to remain upright.
He looked into Smiok’s face.
“Getting old is never much fun,” he said. “You watch as your strength and vitality seep out of you. You see others grow strong as you become weak. It’s nature’s greatest betrayal. Be thankful you won’t have to live to experience it. It’s better to die in your prime, trust me.”
“Uh, yes, sir,” Smiok said.
He wasn’t sure what the old man was driving at but I got the sense he soon would.
“Will you help me to complete my mission?” the old man said.
“Of course,” Smiok said. “I’ve told you everything I know.”
“Yes, yes. You told me everything you know but have you given me everything you have?”
It took a moment for the words to sink in. Smiok frowned and shook his head.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, “I’m not sure I understand—”
The old man’s yellow eyes opened, becoming broad and like lamps.
Smiok stared, transfixed by these luminous lamp-like eyes, enthralled. His face turned slack and his arms hung uselessly by his side.
The old man’s mouth opened the same way, stretching beyond what should have been physically possible. The darkness in his mouth was deep and all-encompassing. He sucked, breathing in deeply with all the force of a raging black hole.
If I looked closely enough I could make out the flickering shimmer of a thin line as the old man tugged harder. He might have been sucking on a straw. There was even a sharp slurping sound that more closely resembled tearing as if someone were ripping the pages out of the book. Beneath that, a high-pitched scream that wailed into the infinite dark of the old man’s throat.
He absorbed what was inside Smiok. His strength, his vitality, some would have described it as his soul.
Deep lines formed in Smiok’s face and his arms turned thin and frail, his hair grey, then pure white, and then finally it fell from his head and onto the floor.
Smiok lost the strength in his legs and he crumpled forward. At the same time, the old man dropped his walking stick and remained standing under his—or, rather, Smiok’s—newfound strength. He caught Smiok by the lapels and held him upright as he continued to suck that strength from him.
Worst of all, he was powerless to prevent it.
Finally, the old man released his grip and let Smiok fall to the floor. Smiok could barely move. Old age had struck him in a single debilitating blow.
The old man’s
