With his staff against the breached wall, Szarel placed his hands behind his back and watched as the Onyx Order’s cruiser, the Shroud of Darkness, descended next to the stopped wagon, its anti-gravity engines shutting down. Like ants from a busy colony, the Order’s mechanics and engineers swarmed the outer hull of the raider’s mobile base and filled the compartments. Anything that could be used was immediately disassembled and placed in containers, sent back to the cruiser.
A murmur of foul curses reached the magister’s ears. The barbaric abuse of rare engines and the savage methods of capturing such delicate lost technology dissatisfied the workers. The battle-damaged navigation panel behind Szarel vomited a flurry of sparks into the technician’s protective visor, and the man kicked it, cursing in frustration at the loss of a rare processor.
The sun had reached its zenith, shining brightly on such unusual works. Even stranger were the broken camps of local bandits, dotting the cliffs. Their drunken chants and hoots accompanied each supply convoy heading into the Shroud of Darkness. The rabble burst into joyful laughter every time a worker slid off the hull and dangled on a lifeline. Out of boredom, the scoundrels made bets and mockingly offered their help to the hapless climbers.
To their credit, they kept their word, not approaching the machines, although a few shots and cries of pain came from their side. The concoction wore off, and an itching withdrawal tormented the magister. Sounds were no longer as clear; the world dimmed, losing its colors; nerves throbbed, numb. The feeling of losing a part of himself refused to subside, and Szarel’s thoughts returned to the ampoules hidden inside his armor.
Another one wouldn’t hurt. Shouldn’t. I can regenerate, so what’s the harm? The button on his belt beckoned to him, begging him to press it, promising the return of the unique purity and fullness of sensations. Maybe these bastards are planning to slaughter us right now, and I don’t even hear them? Do I have the right to neglect our safety? Don’t I deserve such a small, insignificant pleasure...
Will existed to triumph over desire, and Szarel ignored the temptations, wiping away the drool. The mirrored surface of the back of his vambrace reflected his face, calm except for the twitching corner of his mouth. Desire could be suppressed, but it would never cease to tempt the character.
Szarel whistled, and a harpoon shot out from the cliffs, plunging into the thick hull of the wagon next to the breach. A rope connected the end of the harpoon to the top of the canyon hanging over the vehicles. A lone figure in a shimmering camouflage cloak slid quickly down, landing next to the magister.
The woman straightened, cracking her shoulder and pulling the darkened hood off her head, revealing a face disfigured by burns. The muzzle of a gun peeked out from behind her neck, smelling of smoke. Gray hair framed the sparse tufts of hair growing between the scars on her head.
“Greedy. We’ve cornered such a luxurious, luscious mountain of treasure, and you’re skimming off all the cream alone.” Hoarseness distorted Itil’s purring, contented voice. The leader of the gathering folded her hands behind her back and began to circle the magister, casting glances of her violet eyes at the working person.
“To the winner goes the spoils,” Szarel said.
Using telekinesis, he snatched up a chilled bottle and two goblets taken from the robbers’ supplies. The cork left the floating bottle, and a stream of rich, reddish-brown liquid flowed into the waiting goblets. One flew toward Itil, and he quaffed the second in one gulp. His companion followed suit, tossing the empty goblet over her shoulder.
Customs had their value, and a paper shield was preferable to none.
“That sounds very much like us. You would have made a fine raider, Szarel.” She brushed her shoulder against his cape and ran her fingers over his armored back. “Latif had two thousand thugs, give or take a hundred, serving him. The capture of such a colossus by two hundred men is quite impressive. And that’s not your entire gang. I didn’t know you were hiding an entire army in your pyramid. Tell me, how many Abnormals did you bring with you?”
“Enough to dispel any thoughts of reneging on the deal,” Szarel said.
Two knights had lost their lives in the battle for the armory. The sariant and the priestess sister, who served under Eloise. Their bodies were wrapped in cloaks with respect and carried out in secret from their new allies. Although losses in battle were inevitable, Szarel mourned the loss of another experienced fighter.
Many of the Crusaders had died in the war against the Chosen Prince, and now the ranks of the order were filled with recruited knights from vanished orders and new Blessed Ones not of Trolls descent. Even now, a core of their veterans were practicing combat coordination and creakily adopting new traditions in the safety of their country’s lands. Szarel had taken only the bare minimum of veterans with him on the mission, trusting in the abilities of his adopted kin.
He frowned, experiencing the strange sensation of being watched. The verminous rabble on the rocks grinned shamelessly at them, but the feeling of the lazy, disdainful gaze came from within the busy bridge.
“You know how to stir up a girl’s interest, my friend.” Itil smirked. “A couple of old farts were grumbling about you robbing us, insisting on the unfairness of the deal.”
“Idiots, right? My mother often told me about the need to respect elders; they know a lot and all... But a cretin who lives to gray hair remains the same cretin. I sent them on a well-deserved rest, since my word is no longer a law to them. Although it was assholish on your part to kill all the surrendered soldiers. We agreed on prisoners and young ones. Why did you need the rest?”
“Treat others the way you want to be treated,” Szarel quoted the third commandment of the Planet.
“Oh-ho! So if you were captured, you would want to be beaten to death?”
“Of course. I know all about skinning, and about prepared salt, and about needles, and about prepared fuel for starting a fire… Sometimes death is a mercy. Torture only humiliates the torturer.”
“Easy for you to say. You don’t know what Latif did to the locals.” Itil turned away, stared out, and spat down. Szarel caught a flash of irritation in her gaze.
Not her.
“Hey!” shouted an engineer, dismantling the launcher under the breach. He wiped the spittle from his helmet.
“Damn, you’re like fleas here, hiding everywhere!” Itil scratched her sweaty neck. “Didn’t mean to.”
“Are you saying you’ve never raided?” Szarel asked. “Never shot villagers in the back, never robbed merchants?”
“We’ve never stooped to the level of beasts.” Itil turned to the magister. “Lemme guess: we deserve punishment, too.”
“You do. But an eye for an eye brings blindness,” Szarel said. “Itil, Volnitsa, will not remain lawless or free for long. By kidnapping and refusing to return our people, the local rulers have attracted our attention. The Oath will come.” A small compartment opened in the sleeve of his armor, and the magister took out an ampoule. “And in the future, we will need loyal and law-abiding factotums.”
“Fak... facto... what?” Itil stared hard at the ampoule.
And the feeling of contempt did not disappear.
“Trusted persons willing to accept a new way of life to avoid retirement,” Szarel explained, holding out the ampoule, and she grabbed it. “Through an IV, this will buy him another five months. Upon return, I will report about your loyalty to the agreement, and you will be able to arrive for treatment, although my medic recommended placing the patient under our supervision…”
“No,” Itil snapped. “I haven’t been looking for him for so long to hand him over to strangers. And do not forget to mention to your bosses that it was he who provided you with the sketches of the insides of this wagon. He earned the best healing. The finest!”
“As you wish.” Szarel was glad of this outburst of emotion. Itil was capable of care and love. She wasn’t incorrigible, just tainted by growing up in the wild. “Itil, there is one more thing. I will need to infiltrate Draz’s lair. To ransom our kidnapped people, quietly, calmly, and without causing unnecessary disturbance.”
“Can’t really help here.” Itil drummed on the burns on her face. “His reward for the late tribute. Paikan didn’t give a damn, but Draz imagines himself to be the new ruler of Volnitsa and took offense on his behalf. Well, I took my displeasure out on his people. One thing followed another, and now, if the opportunity arises, he will rip my guts out and then strangle me with them. The bastard is as vengeful and vicious as he is cowardly.”
“Is there anyone here who is not at odds with the others?” asked Szarel.
“Oh, be simpler. You’re lucky, my dear; the safe return of your gang is in my best interests. My buddies will withhold information about you for a week or two and provide you with a map of the Empty. I send my payments to Paikan with them, so they know the area. You’ll have to exchange the currency to buy people with them yourself; I have no idea what your crosses are worth.”
He turned away from her. The sphere and its gentle captive were no longer on the bridge, and three technicians had reached up to their waists into the command panel near the throne, extracting everything valuable. All the cameras had long since been removed. The feeling of being watched had died down, vanished.
The magister spread his telekinesis across the room, creating a semblance of an invisible veil, thin and unobstructive. Every movement and even a simple breath violated its integrity, alerting him to the location of everyone present. Even an invisible spy could not hide from this effect without giving themselves away.
Nothing unusual.
“What’s the matter?” Itil asked, tucking the precious ampoule under a jumble of clothing and body armor. “I felt a tickle.”
“It seemed to me as if someone was spying on us. Looking at us with that look…”
“Yeah?”
“Full of disgust. As if we were bugs. I must be getting old and imagining things.”
“Try not to crumble.” Itil playfully nudged him with her elbow. “At least until you report how useful we were.”
****
“…I can also wash, cook, look after animals, sew, I know how to read and wash,” Sylvie chattered, walking next to a clicking woman in snow-white armor and a torn, bloody robe.
Soon after waking up in a strange place, Sylvie heard the other slaves offering their help to the servants of their masters. Their new overlords weren’t as scary or cruel as the previous ones. She was given several nutritious whitish bars and tasty chicken broth, a one-piece and warm jumpsuit of bright green color with orange crosses, a helmet, and soft clothes. The stupid and choking collar was removed from her neck, and the doctor treated her inflamed cuts and bruises while she greedily ate, swallowing the gray mass without chewing.
In truth, she wanted to hide under the blanket and rest, to get a good night’s sleep. But the girl learned how cruel the world was. Nothing good lasted long; sooner or later those who did not give their all would be punished. Sylvie intended to ensure an existence for herself and Rustam and wanted to prove her usefulness by any means necessary. She volunteered to help the new owners, and a strange woman with hooves instead of legs escorted her back to the wagon.
The sight of the damned machine that had devastated the settlement where Sylvie lived struck terror into her heart, and she even stumbled, surprised to find an encouraging gauntlet on her shoulder. The rest of the journey back was no longer so scary, especially after the girl noticed with vengeful pleasure the holes and melted cannons on the mechanical monster.
The creature is dead. You and your whole rabid pack. Now you will rot. All alone.
The passages no longer felt like narrow traps; no one was throwing her around, and there was no deafening noise pounding her ears and causing a constant headache. Even the air inside became cooler, not stuffy and without the slightest sourness.
“You are a very capable girl.” Crus-something-next gave her a thumbs up. “But you don’t have to talk so much; otherwise your throat will dry out.”
“Oh, I can be patient, lady. As long as you like.” Sylvie nodded, and the realization hit her like thunder. “If my voice irritates you, then I will shut up. Just tell me.”
They walked along the corridor where there had recently been a fight. Bullet holes covered the walls, one place looked like someone had punched their way through the partition, and they had to walk around the raider’s corpse covered with a tarp. Sylvie couldn’t help but kick the limp hand, wishing she could jump on him and hear the bones crack.
She hated these inhuman bastards.
“Chat as much as you like; it doesn’t bother me. I often can’t shut up myself.” The woman patted her head. “We’re already here. Here’s the door to the hold. If you want, we can chat over dinner later tonight, swap stories about traditions, maybe sing a few songs...”
“Ruda!” A roar filled the corridor.
With a clatter louder than Ruda’s hooves, a woman in bright scarlet robes hurried toward them. Taller than Sylvie’s escort by a full head and broader in the shoulders, the newcomer did not wear a helmet, and her brown hair, caught in a circlet, reached her shoulders, springing in time with her steps. Twisted cords and cables coming from the depths of the armor completely hid her neck, disappearing right into the lower jaw of a pale head.
“Sister Eloise...”
“Drop familiarity, Sariant. Commander Satanini ordered you to see the medics and recuperate,” the pale woman barked.
“I’m fine, and Sylvie needed a guide to Commander von Bülow …”
“You’ve already completed your objection.“ Eloise opened the door and pushed Sylvie forward. “Carde! Another worker. And you with me.” She dragged Ruda away by the shoulder.
“A volunteer? Come in, I’ll show you what to do,” a pleasant, flowing voice called from inside.
Sylvie stepped into the hold timidly, a little dazed by the activity within. Groups of adult slaves and newcomers were rummaging through piles of stolen treasure, setting the art objects apart from the precious metals. Instead of chopping off their hands for such impudence, as their previous owners had done, the current masters exchanged occasional jokes with their servants and even allowed them to drink from their own flasks, occasionally directing their work.
Gold, silver, and bronze coins jingled to the left and right and even underfoot. Marble statues of long-dead kings, stuck into waist-deep piles of treasure, stared sternly at the people. Some idols were covered in cracks; several were missing limbs. Besides them, there were scattered many things that were so incredible that the girl was breathless with delight. Music boxes sat next to slightly tattered paintings, belts decorated with emeralds hung from bright white candelabra, diamonds and rubies lay on precious fabrics and sparkled in the electric light.
And it was all stolen. Won by force and paid for with the tears of my kind. I am just a grain of sand, nothing serving the current robbers. Sylvie reminded herself. For her sake and Rustam’s, she must prove herself. Otherwise, they would face the whip, or worse.
A figure in dark black armor, kneeling by a huge stone slab, beckoned to her, and the girl rushed toward him, bowing immediately. Like her companion, he was too big for a human.
“Sylvie Bright, I am ready to do your bidding, lord!”
“Hush, child.” The man removed his helmet. His black skin had a slight ashen tint, and his hair was white, just like the serfs Dad bought for the farming seasons. “Calm down. Look. It was a plaque, a kind of chronicle, created by a civilization that dated its existence and disappearance long before the foundation of the Old World.”
Sylvie complied, not quite understanding what the strange man was talking about. At first glance, it was an ordinary, roughly carved slab, but then the light illuminated its surface, and she gasped. Like blooming bouquets of flowers, shells, somehow inserted inside, decorated the stone, creating circular patterns. The gold ore that framed the writing emphasized each letter of the unfamiliar language, and even in places where time or external influences had torn away part of the carving, the shape of the ore helped to guess the outline of a letter. The faded colors of the shells and gold shimmered, mixing into a single beautiful rainbow, and highlights of light reflected from other treasures ran along the edges of the writing like yellow stars.
“Beautiful...” Sylvie whispered.
“True,” agreed Carde. “The people who made this wonder lived on a series of islands in the middle of a vast ocean. They traded with their neighbors on land, exchanging fish for iron, and did not have a powerful army or a strong navy. Believe it or not, they and many others existed before the very first chain mail. And now we have a chance to admire their works of art. The language is not entirely clear to me; it is probably their old dialect, different from the later versions. No problem, we will soon decipher it and even bring back the mollusks if it is possible to restore or extract at least part of their DNA for cloning. Isn’t that fascinating?”
“Why return them?”
“Because they played their role in the ecosystem. And if we want to one day leave our descendants a worthy ocean, then we need to resurrect so many extinct life forms!”
“What is an ocean?” asked Sylvie.
Carde’s flawless face smiled. “A miracle of nature, which the Oath is already returning to our world. Remind me later, I’ll show you this majestic and wayward blue on the video. But first, we must deliver everything that is here to our cruiser.”
“How can I carry off such a heavy thing?!” Sylvie frowned and immediately bowed, scolding herself for her stupidity. She will be whipped, undoubtedly whipped or kicked! “Forgive me, sir! I am a fool; I should not have said anything. I’ll come up with something…”
“Sylvie.” Carde stood up, frightening the girl. “You shouldn’t berate yourself, even if you mistakenly think that it’s true. And don’t worry about the chronicle. I or the workers will take it. Your task here is different. You need to help us sort the objects in the hall without accidentally dropping anything in your pockets so that the inspectors will have less work later, Gosha.”
He glanced to the side, and a young mutant leaned over and dropped a few coins from his work overalls, picking up a small vase. The bit of skin visible between the bony growths turned red, either from shame or from being caught. The soldier standing next to him slapped him, anyway.
“Enough, enough,” Carde chided. “Young people wouldn’t be young if they didn’t do stupid things.”
“All the more reason to correct such behavior immediately, fighting brother,” the soldier responded. “That’s what we’re adults for.”
“A wise approach. Just remember that these guys have already taken more than enough blows for a lifetime.” The master spread his arms and clapped his hands, sending a light breeze in all directions. His cloak fluttered, and the workers turned to face him. “We don’t have free labor here. Your efforts will be adequately compensated with usable money. Continue.” He turned to Sylvie, ignoring the sound of coins falling and even a couple of bowls accompanied by the guards’ exasperated sighs. “You’ll need to sort things. Fragile to the left side of the hold, solid, like vases, dishes, and the like, to the right.”
“And if I am not sure whether an object is fragile or solid?” Sylvie looked at the luxurious carpet hanging from the closet. It was recently added, and she knew this green embroidery.
Scum. I hope you suffered. She wanted to go up and touch the fabric, to remember the good days, but she didn’t dare. The world was divided into slaves and rulers; no matter how sweet their current owners behaved, eventually they would show their true colors. All non-humans were monsters.
“In that case, it is better to err on the side of caution.” The master patted her neck.
At least animals prey on animals. A small justice. Sylvie began to examine the things, pulling some away and helping with the careful packing. It was not part of her job, but the girl tried to learn everything she could, and knowing how to tie strong knots and carefully stack boxes and plates, covering them with packing paper so that they would not break during transportation, could not hurt.
The ease with which the other slaves communicated with the guards was intimidating. She wanted to scream at them to stop provoking them and playing the owners’ cruel game, but that would give her away. She had to work, earning herself and Rustam a day tomorrow. From time to time, she glanced at Carde, tormented by curiosity.
“You have a question. Ask,” he said, without looking at her.
Sylvie froze, wanting only to disappear. Fool, I am such a moron! Speak, don’t be silent, otherwise they’ll beat you! Obey, obey!
“Master…” Carde raised a finger. “Lord?” The finger wobbled. “Mister,” she dared, and the hand dropped, and he turned to her. “You mentioned the return of the moll… well, those, what’s their name, creatures! Can people be returned in the same manner?”
“Cloning allows you to recreate the body. Sometimes down to the last scar, although this is still unattainable for the Oathtakers. There is only one country capable of this. But even they cannot restore a person’s personality, their soul, this mysterious gift from God. A human resurrected in this way will be an entirely different person, often without even the blessing of the original,” explained Carde.
Knew it. Mom won’t come back. Sylvie wiped her sweat, furtively wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “Were you also freed from the bandits?” she asked, hoping to distract the owner.
“No, the Bülows have served the Oath for eight generations. Traditionally, the third offspring of our family always goes into the army, and the second into business to earn a worthy inheritance without resorting to civil strife, so my father called archeology a science worthy of cowardly wives and kicked me into the order in the hope of making a real man out of me. I periodically send him photos and my history books, published at the national level. I enjoy keeping the old man in shape,” laughed Carde.
Oh, how it happens. Sylvie almost advised him to be more respectful to his parents but wisely kept her opinion to herself. He was just pretending. All non-humans were capable of cruelty, falsehood, and little else. If she ever saw her dad again, she would immediately apologize for all her pranks, becoming the best daughter in the world.
****
Rustam opened his glued eyelids, staring at the plain white ceiling, not quite believing that he was still alive and hearing light tapping, as if someone was sticking a spear into the grate. Surprisingly, he did not feel any pain, although he felt broken pieces of teeth in his gums. His uniform and weapons were gone, and in their place he was dressed in an unfamiliar green robe, marked with a black pentagram on the shoulder. The ear in which the eardrum had burst was covered with an unknown fabric, but the strangest thing was his cheek.
Instead of a torn hole, he had skin! Rough to the touch, and he could not see its color, no matter how hard he pulled his normal skin, but when his tongue touched it, he felt the touch, albeit a very numb one.
How long did I sleep? Marveled the boy, touching the new neck with his finger and worrying about tearing it. The ghosts of his family and pleasant smells evoked by the veil disappeared, and he realized how much he longed for the return of the intoxicating fog. These clouds of smoke allowed him to visit a place where everything was fine, where his family was with him...
Unreal. That’s what it was. Stop dreaming, coward.
He lay on the bed, covered with a thin blanket, with a spacious pillow behind his back. Nothing bothered him; even the bruises on his chest had dissolved, becoming barely noticeable dark spots. Discovering the absence of pants and underwear, he blushed, fearing the worst.
“Ow,” came a voice from the left, and Rustam heard plastic hitting the tray.
A palm’s length away from him, on exactly the same bed, sat a boy, leaning against pillows. They were both dressed similarly and were of similar age, but the stranger shocked Rustam with the color of his snow-white, almost transparent skin through which the threads of his veins were visible.
Untidy, long black locks covered the second boy like a cloak, reaching the floor. Gray eyes stared at Rustam in fear, and a thin, bird-foot-like hand tried to lift a spoon from the tray standing above the overbed table. A plate full of soup, smelling deliciously of cabbage and meat, was secured in the tray's recess.
“Hi. I’m Rustam.” Rustam introduced himself, holding out his hand and speaking with a whistle due to the air escaping through the hole where his front tooth had been. The second boy cringed, and he noticed the bandages that covered his arms and neck so tightly that from the side they looked like a white sweater. “Won’t hurt you. Honest. Do you know where we ended up?”
“Rescue... saved,” the boy answered, cheering up after hearing the words. He swallowed and pronounced the words syllable by syllable, pointing to his chest with his thumb, “Grisha.”
“Nice to meet you, Grisha.”
He was probably beaten until he became a dotard. Rustam thought with pity, carefully shaking Grisha’s hand. The boy had no calluses or normal muscles, and he was worried about accidentally hurting him.
Looking around, Rustam discovered they were at the end of an oblong room, smoothly fading past the door around the corner. The floor and walls were flat, without the slightest trace of rust or nicks. Identical beds stood in orderly rows along the entire length to the entrance. On several of them, slaves he knew were fast asleep.
The girl who served the artillerymen, always coughing up blood, was dozing near the front door, covered with a blanket. Next to her was an unusual device on which rubber expanded and contracted, driving air through a tube going into her throat. The scullion, scalded by the soup yesterday, resembled a fly swaddled in cobwebs because of the layer of bandages. Rustam did not know the others well, but there were three dozen people here. The strange knocking of sharp spears continued, coming without any rhythm.
Since my cheek and ear were treated, and the others are also alive, it doesn’t look like they plan to eat us. He calmed down, looking around. But where is Sylvie? And the rest?
“I’m not stupid,” Grisha suddenly said, frowning. “Not retarded. Just… taken. Locked.”
“I didn’t say…”
“You thought! Surely thought!” The spoon slipped from the boy’s fingers again.
Is he reading my mind? Rustam wasn’t even surprised by this. Anything could happen. “My bad. I shouldn’t have assumed that. I was kidnapped too. And now we’ve been stolen from our kidnappers,” he joked. “Do you need help to eat before the soup gets cold? It’s not difficult for me.”
“Yes,” Grisha said quietly. “Thank you.”
Rustam moved to the edge of the bed, took a spoon, and began feeding the kid. The smell made his stomach rumble, but the idea of stealing from the exhausted little one seemed unthinkable. He was strong; it was not his first time to wait a couple of days without food. The boys talked, and Rustam noticed Grisha’s manner of using simple or occasionally incorrect words. But in general, he really was not stupid, just scared.
“Grisha, do you know what will happen to us? And I was with a brown-haired girl; her name is Sylvie. I have not heard anything about her.”
The face of the long-haired boy twisted, and he swallowed with difficulty, scratching his temple. Rustam reached out to touch him, but Grisha broke out of a strange stupor and gulped more soup.
“There’s a 97.9 percent chance that you’ll have your teeth drilled in the next twenty minutes,” he said clearly and monotonously. “Based on most factors, there’s an 87 percent chance that Sylvie is in the destroyed land train. 13 percent point to her presence in the wardroom watching training videos.”
“What’s she doing in the damn behemoth?! And who and why will drill my teeth?!” Rustam exclaimed, stopping when a shadow of pain flashed across Grisha’s face. He clenched his teeth, hitting himself on the bulging vein on his head. “You with me? Should I call someone? Maybe you should lie down?”
“No. Want soup,” Grisha squeezed out. “Food, normal food. Delicious. Just... questions. It’s unpleasant to answer precisely. It’s pounding from within.”
“No need for precision. Eat and rest,” Rustam said quickly, puzzled. Precisely? What does he mean?
“But how will I repay your help then...”
“No need. You don’t owe me anything.” And I certainly don’t want to see your skull explode. “No need for any… percentages if they hurt you.”
“Work your jaw less, patient.”
Rustam froze, his heart skipping a beat from the inhuman bulk looming over him. Attached to a long, flower-like stalk ending in a sharp sting was a semblance of a human torso, turned towards the children, on which were two three-fingered hands and a head stretched back, tapering towards the temple. Six bunches of window-like eyes hung over mandibles that completely covered the mouth.
The creature moved on six flexible, hairy, multi-jointed legs, sticking them into the ceiling and producing the sound of a spear strike. With inhuman grace, the creature, covered in blue chitin, moved to hang over the children, studying them with its black eyes. In its hand, covered in transparent tape, it held scissors.
“Judging by the slow breathing and shock, you have never met an Insectone?” The insect’s mandibles snapped, producing ordinary human speech.
“Don’t... don’t eat us, Master,” Rustam asked weakly. “I can do the work of two. Three! Give Grisha a little while, and he’ll too...”
“Ah, you’ve already become friends! Commendable, socialization helps improve your mood.” The looming monster nodded, and three of its limbs, two legs and a free arm, descended on Rustam and turned his head, exposing his injured cheek. When touched, the limbs turned out to be hard, like the branches of a dry tree. “The synthetic skin took root adequately. The artificial nerves have already connected with the natural endings, and even the burn mark has fallen off. Over time, this patch will disappear. It’ll be absorbed by your biological tissues, but until then, be moderate in opening your mouth.”
“Hello, Officer Cenfus,” Grisha said syllable by syllable.
“Chief Physician Cenfus. How are you feeling, Grishechka? No abdominal pain, involuntary emptiness of the stomach, or urination?” the creature asked, speaking in a male voice.
Still stupefied, Rustam did not resist as Cenfus unceremoniously examined him like a doll. Hearing Grisha calmly answer questions about his well-being, the boy’s heartbeat calmed down a little from the knowledge that they would not be killed. For now, anyway.
“My name is...”
“Rustam, yes, I know. Young Sylvie buzzed to us about you, how you saved her, what a good worker and soldier you are, and then she took off.“ Cenfus let him go. “As far as I know, you had a rather unpleasant encounter with Sariant Ruda.”
Ruda? Ah, that bitch who wanted to off me. His hand trembled with remembered fear. “You could say that, master.”
“Stop this nonsense. Masters.” Cenfus’s mandibles opened wide, revealing a round mouth without teeth. He snorted, completely indistinguishable from a human. “Your masters are dead. Every single one of them. That’s it, you’re free. Now we will treat you, fatten you up—no, not for that, don’t googly your eyes, fool—and send you back to your families.”
“I doubt it’ll happen,” Rustam said grimly, clenching his fists. A few weeks. Just a few damn weeks earlier, and he wouldn’t have been alone.
Cenfus stopped his tirade, looked at him, and patted him on the shoulder. “My condolences. Don’t give up; claw out your own happiness. At the orphanage you’ll be helped. Now about you, Grisha. It’s time to trim your hair; otherwise, you’ll stumble at every step.”
Grisha leaned back on the pillows, trying to move away from the approaching doctor, and stared at the scissors in his hand. “No need to cut,” he babbled with whitened lips. “No cuts, please, no more.”
“It doesn’t hurt!” Rustam said quickly. He pulled a hair from his balding head and showed it to the boy. “No blood, nothing. I promise you won’t even feel anything. Cenfus, is it okay if I cut it? Grisha seems afraid of strangers.”
“Yeah, and he knows you,” the hanging insect mocked. He handed the scissors to Rustam and helped him stand up. “Well, your legs are fine. Your posture is terrible; one shoulder is much lower than the other, and there is a slight limp.” He pulled out a small black rectangular object from the hollow between his leg joints and began typing, nodding as Rustam cut two strands of hair from the seated boy’s head. “There is no tremor in the fingers; coordination is not impaired. Do you feel any tangible side effects of the drug? Dizziness, disorientation, itching...”
Over the next few minutes, Rustam answered incessant questions, working on Grisha’s head with all possible care. He did not strive for beauty; the boy himself could adjust his hair later as he needed.
“You mentioned a word. Insectone. Well, I have seen a creature similar to you,” said Rustam. “Latif was an insect, too.”
“A human. As much as I’d like to think of him as a nit, his ancestors, and mine, are descended from humans,” declared Cenfus. “Oh, it’s a shame they didn’t let me join the boarders to shake off the old dust. I wanted to skin a certain bastard so much.”
“He would have killed you,” said Grisha. The veins on his temples bulged. “If you and he had clashed, Latif would have torn you apart.”
“Do you think I would have gone at him bare-handed?” The doctor inclined his head. “Without my assortment of poisons, without weapons or armor?”
“Ouch.” Grisha grimaced, pressing his hand to his face. “Yes, you wouldn’t. In that case, you would have won with an 86 percent probability.” He shuddered, sobbing.
“It hurts Grisha to answer precise questions,” Ruslan butted in. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him, but his head throbs when he tries to do calculations.”
“I noticed,” said the doctor. “I am specifically assessing the approximate capabilities and limits of his gift. He seems to be a precog, limited by his perception. First, Grisha asked his power the wrong question and received an inaccurate answer. A rare gift and potentially useful, but in no way valuable enough to justify years of isolation in that damned prison.”
Cenfus lowered his face to Grisha’s eye level and raised his hand, showing the boys a simple dark-colored pill.
“Let’s set some rules. As my patient, you will not use your power. Not for thanks, not for appeasement. Just forget about it and recover.”
“So I can never use it?”
“Did I say that? You are no longer connected to the life support system that relieved most of the stress associated with using your power. Now you will need to learn how to wield it safely. But that will be later, after full recovery. Otherwise, I will feed you a power suppression pill. It is not a pleasant thing, and I do not mean the taste. You will still have the ability; you will still know how to use it.” His faceted eyes did not reflect anything. “But you will not be able to use it. This oppressive, disgusting feeling is akin to paralysis, but for the sake of your health, I will do it. Do you believe me, Grisha?“ The boy nodded convulsively, grabbing himself by the shoulders. “Excellent. So we understood each other. Eat, rest, sleep, and talk. Explore the world.”
“Do you really need to scare a child, Cenfus?” asked a voice from the entrance.
Only now did Rustam notice a tall Long Arms entering the medical bay. With the exception of the mirrored vambraces, his armor was painted in a dark tone, on which the outlines of strange inscriptions were discernible, made in such a black color that it seemed as if they absorbed the light itself. His arms were so long that he not only folded them behind his back but also grabbed his shoulders from behind, holding up a black cape embroidered with silver thread. Gray, alien, taut skin covered the stranger’s earless head.
A soldier stopped behind him, an ordinary-looking man. He held horizontally a richly decorated staff, ending in a predatory, gleaming sword-shaped head.
The armored giant stomped towards the company without worrying about the passages being too narrow. Beds with sleeping children moved out of his way on their own, seamlessly returning to their previous positions as he passed by. Out of surprise and fear of the inhuman, Rustam dropped the scissors, and they hung in the air. Trying not to look defiant, he took them and stood in front of Grisha. Just in case.
“Yes. Grisha lived for ten or more years in pitch darkness. He developed a habit of using his strength to avoid punishment with electric shocks and in exchange for conversations, no matter how short or rude they were. Add to this the fact that he saw the outside world through his power, and we are dealing with a subconscious addiction. And we will break it for his own well-being... Halt! Get out of the infirmary with this stick!” Cenfus rushed towards the entrance, almost hitting Grey Face.
“Tradition demands that the magister and his weapon must be inseparable…” the soldier began.
“Shove them up your ass, soft-skinned,” the doctor whispered furiously, hanging from the ceiling above the fearless soldier. “I have patients here! What if one of them twitches or runs into this glorified skewer? Outside, now. And lift this shit point up, for the Planet’s sake.”
“Don’t you dare call the sword-staff a skewer, you overgrown cockroach.”
“Where’s your staff, Cenfus?” Grey Face asked emotionlessly.
“Practicing. You made me take a bunch of untested recruits with me. All the serious cases have already been handled, and currently the greenhorns are training under the supervision of their betters.” Cenfus distracted from his squabble with the soldier. “We’ll make proper nurses and doctors out of this fainting, chicken-hearted bunch yet.”
“No wonder you’re so jumpy,” the soldier said with feigned sympathy. “You had to work with your hands for the first time in the last decade.”
“Don’t forget who prescribes your vitamins, Butylin.”
“Thanks for the reminder; I’ll say greetings to her later.”
“And how is our guest?” asked the magister.
“Muscles on the verge of atrophy, several poorly healing abscesses, we managed to prevent blood poisoning and save his leg. His thoughts are clear; he has not yet shown any addiction to the drugs, no allergies, he has an appetite. Not bad, considering what he had to go through,” reported Cenfus. “You were right, he has a superpower. Prediction. Nothing impressive, but it is not for me to evaluate his strength. For now he needs injections...”
“No!” Grisha screamed, trying to roll out of bed. “No needles! No tubes! Please, no, please...”
“Grisha, everything is fine.” Rustam hugged him.
“Stop the hysteria, patient,” the doctor clicked his mandibles in irritation. “There is nothing to worry about.”
“No! I will be good, I will do anything, just don’t prick me...”
“Is it possible to treat him without syringes?” asked Grey Face.
“Szarel, don’t participate in this stupidity.” The magister turned around and looked at the doctor. He clicked his tongue. “Yes. It is neither optimal nor reasonable, but yes. Doable.”
“Then let’s make a concession to our young patient,” said Szarel, and Grisha fell silent and smiled with hope.
“Wonderful. Why did I take psychology courses and study and still study medicine? Everyone here knows better than me what patients need.” Cenfus threw up his hands. In his performance, his hands went down, slapping the panel near the door and closing it, cutting off the soldier’s laughter. “Why overcome internal fears, let’s indulge them. What do I know, after all? I only served three magisters of the order. An ignoramus, nothing more.”
“So... there won’t be any injections?” Grisha asked timidly.
“There will be none,” Szarel assured dryly. “And do not think ill of Cenfus. He is prone to grumbling, but since he left the ranks of the Crusaders for a more noble aspiration, he has saved thousands of lives. He is a noble and caring man...”
With the speed of a released arrow, Cenfus ran across the ceiling, reaching and grabbing Rustam.
“All this commotion knocked me off my train of thought.” His film-covered hands caught Rustam, lifting him with ease. “It’s time to take care of your teeth and put in dentures.”
Nothing impressive, sure. Rustam held back the urge to scream. He still didn’t believe that this creature could be considered a human, but a slight toothache certainly couldn’t be anything too unbearable. He was much more worried about his new acquaintance. On the other hand, Szarel, or whatever his name was, didn’t inspire him with any sense of danger like that scum with hooves.
“In the meantime, I’ll ask Grisha a few questions,” Szarel said.
“If he tries to force you to use the power, shout. I’ll kick his butt,” Cenfus told the boy, carrying Rustam to the turn.
“Chief Physician Cenfus, watch your language. Kindergarten may have fallen on our heads, but this is no excuse for us to fall into childhood ourselves and demonstrate behavior unworthy of a venerable servant of the Oath.”
