Letho felt a twinge of fear when it occurred to him that he had no idea where Thresha had gone. He wondered if he could trust her; he knew so little about her. He did know that she had saved him by killing one of her own, in a spectacular display of both inhuman strength and brutal resolve.
But what if it was some sort of ruse? What if Alastor had orchestrated it all, sacrificed one of his own to allow Thresha to gain his trust? Having one of his acolytes close to Letho would provide Alastor with a significant strategic advantage.
You overestimate your importance, Letho. Alastor has probably forgotten about you. He probably took as much notice of you as he might a gnat, or a toaster oven.
Letho shrugged, a gesture directed at no one in particular. Maybe the copilot was right. Alastor might even think he was dead. According to the Fulcrum’s log, he had been missing for at least ten years. That was quite a long time, even for someone who might be immortal. Plenty of time to form the assumption that Letho and his ragtag group had perished.
Sila.
Letho remembered the moment that Saladin had responded to his wilclass="underline" the engagement of grab-servos that had melded with his consciousness; the pleasurable smoothness of swinging the sword, even as it completed its infernal trajectory and parted Sila’s neck like a scythe through trembling stalks of grain. He knew the memory would always be with him, like the phantom itch from a lost limb. He tried self-comfort, telling himself that the creature that had stood before him had not been the girl he had cared for so deeply. But another part of him, something dark and hateful deep within his core, reminded him that he may have acted too quickly to truly assess the situation. This shadow within him had enjoyed killing Sila’s abandoned body. Had enjoyed bathing in the blood of the other Mendraga he had torn to pieces in his incandescent rage.
With no one else to speak to, he addressed his talking sword. “Saladin, what do you think about what happened in Alastor’s ship?”
“Sir? What do I think? I am unsure how to respond to this query.”
“The Mendraga. What do you know about them?”
“One moment, please.”
Letho felt insects crawling across the surface of his brain, tunneling through the center as Saladin’s artificial mind spun up. He knew what Saladin knew, could see into his databanks through the connection between their minds. Yet Saladin chose to speak the words aloud:
“I have very little information about the Mendraga. It is unknown whether they are an alien species or a product of genetic mutation. On Alastor’s ship, my scans detected multiple physiological anomalies, including, but not limited to, irregular internal organ configuration, low body temperature, and an adapted mandible structure that allows them to consume the bodily fluids of their prey. This seems to be their primary form of sustenance.
“My records also indicate that the first sightings coincided with the launch of the Fulcrum stations. There are numerous documented attacks on Fulcrum stations. “
“They were searching for Fintran. And they found him. Bastards.”
“Fintran. Yes. Rather unfortunate that he was terminated. Tarsi lore may provide more of the answers you seek. It is a shame you can no longer ask him.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Letho said, grimacing, wringing his hands. He paused, then asked, “What do you think about Thresha?”
“Sir, if you could formulate questions that are more empirical in nature, it would greatly assist me in providing suitable answers.”
“This is something we are going to have to work on, Mr. Talking Sword.”
“Vocal inflection indicates humor mingled with derision. This is called sarcasm, correct?”
“Yes, Saladin. It’s called sarcasm. Let me try again: have you scanned Thresha? And if so, what did you find?”
“Of course, sir. I have scanned all of the entities currently aboard this ship. The Tarsi with you now are no different from those represented in studies conducted before your race left Eursus. Their bodies are remarkably similar to the Eursan form, excluding the obvious differences in size, fur covering, and facial structure. In addition, your two races share a significant overlap in respective genome sequences, though theirs is much more complex.
“But you, sir, are a marvel. Nano-machine tests indicate perfect health. Your cells appear to regenerate at a rapid rate, and I can find no traces of disease or toxins in your bloodstream. And your mind! So many synaptic connections…”
“Saladin. Thresha, remember?”
“Forgive me, sir. I became distracted. Perhaps on some level I was seeking your approval.”
“It’s fine. Just tell me something about Thresha.”
“Very well. She does not appear to be dissimilar to other Mendraga. However, a body scan detected an anomaly in her abdomen: an organic growth, cyst-like in nature, roughly the size of your hand. I am unable to discern its origin or purpose, as I know very little about Mendraga physiology. It appears to be calcified. It may have originated as a tumor, or possibly even a fetus. There are numerous possibilities.”
Oh my God.
“Sir, is everything all right?”
“Yes. No. That is more or less the most horrifying thing I have ever heard, Saladin.”
A tumor.
Or a fetus.
That “or” was as big as a Fulcrum station.
Either prognosis caused Letho’s insides to curdle. Letho hoped it was the former, a cancerous growth eradicated by the Mendraga condition. The latter was too much for him to process.
“Okay, enough biology. Can you detect lying, Saladin?”
“Yes, sir. Pulse and blood pressure tend to spike—even brain waves change when a person lies. Though this does not apply to Thresha, as her phys—”
“Saladin, if you say physio-something one more time I’m chucking you out of an airlock.”
“Again I detect derision. You are being facetious. As I was saying, I do not have any conclusive methods to detect falsehoods in creatures with no pulse, but based on her mannerisms and brain wave patterns, I have thus far detected no signs of mistruth.”
“Well, that’s good to know. Good talk, buddy.”
“I agree. Sir, if you have any more questions—”
“Saladin, talking time is over. “
“Of course, sir.”
THREE - Trajectory
Letho joined his cohorts inside the cramped office. A gnawing sensation lit up his belly, and he had to grasp the doorframe to steady himself as a hunger pang like he had never known surged through his body.
“Hey Letho, you okay?” Deacon asked, standing up from the computer desk.
“Yeah. Just realized how incredibly hungry I am,” he replied.
“I know what you mean. It might be a good idea to see what supplies we can scavenge. Can’t imagine there’ll be a welcoming committee waiting for us with fruity beverages and a cornucopia of delicious treats when we get planetside.”
Many of the group nodded in agreement, and the air of desperation that was slowly permeating everything around them seemed to lift a bit. Finding a sense of purpose in a time of turmoil can do that. But Letho didn’t quite share in the communal sense of optimism. Chances were that the whole damn ship had been picked clean. He didn’t really know what the situation was on Eursus’s surface. Of course he’d seen the Eursus vids that came from Hastrom City during his time as an information sector worker; those vids had made it seem that even though most, if not all, other cities had gone dark, Hastrom City’s light still burned bright. Hastrom City was ever on the mend, and was all but ready to welcome back the intrepid Fulcrum explorers. But Letho couldn’t help but wonder what they would find when they actually set foot on his home planet for the first time.