ElyriasEcstasy (12 page)

Then again, Virge thought as she fixed up the hypodermic,
the Weapon already had a lot of shit in his veins, according to the blood
analysis. She recognized most of it. It had come from this lab, or some lab
that produced similar compounds. The narcotic element was obvious. They had him
hooked
but good.

Again, it wasn’t her business, she judged as she crossed
toward the cot. Bongo was crouched alongside, still staring at the Safe’s most
famous Weapon.

“Do you know who this is?” he asked, eyes practically
goggling.

“Of course I do.” Virge, on the cot’s other side, swabbed
Urna’s arm.

“But do you
know
?”

She made the injection a few inches above where she’d drawn
his blood. It was purely a counteractive measure, so that nothing he’d taken
would lapse him into a coma or otherwise adversely affect him. He would stay
unconscious for several more hours probably. But he wouldn’t die.

She gazed flatly across at Bongo. “You’re being inane. This
is Urna. I know who Urna is.”

“But—but—but—”

“Damn it, Bongo, get a grip. What is this—you’re celebrity
struck?”

He had his hands clasped to his chest. The fingers were
worrying each other. “I dreamed that a powerful creature descended from the
sky. It had big black wings. It was looking for you. Finally it made a nest in
some stones. After I woke I thought they might’ve been bricks. Like the bricks
of your lab. I knew it was an omen.”

She sighed. She’d had a complex dream about rooting through
her closets for a particular sweater. She didn’t, however, attribute any
significance to it.

“Why is he here?” Bongo was asking. “I mean, stealing your
drugs, yes…but
why
? Wouldn’t the Lux be giving him anything he needs? Or
wants.”

Knowing she would have to tell him finally, Virge stated
bluntly, “He’s escaped from the Citadel. It happened last night while I was
there in lockup. The Guard were out looking for him in the streets and on the
roads. Obviously they didn’t manage to find him.”

Bongo was thunderstruck all over. This time his mouth
actually fell open. Virge merely waited.

After a moment he managed, “And you didn’t tell me this?”

“No,” she said simply. She didn’t know what excuse to offer
other than instinct had told her not to.

Bongo stared a while longer. Then he asked, “Why did he
escape?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think anybody else does either. But I
can’t say for sure.” Nick Daphral, at any rate, hadn’t known.

“This is,” Bongo gestured broadly but vaguely, “huge. A huge
thing to have happen. And to have it land right here…”

She checked Urna’s pulse again. It had slowed slightly, was
remaining steady.

Still crouched by the cot, Bongo murmured, “He’s helpless.
The Lux’s best Weapon. I could kill him—”

“You aren’t going to touch him!” Virge raced around the foot
of the cot. She grabbed Bongo’s shirt collar and yanked. He was too big to haul
up onto his feet, but she at least managed to knock him off balance. There was
no way she could really do anything to the muscular man, but damned if she’d
stand by while he harmed Urna!

“Hey, hey!” Bongo took hold of her wrists and pulled her
down, his grip strong but not violent. “Hey,” he said more gently. “Relax. I
wasn’t suggesting we kill him. It’s just the possibility of that much power,
the opportunity to effect that much change all at once. His death would have
massive consequences. I’ve just never had the chance to make so big a splash
before. Not even close. That’s all. Really.”

He let her go. They both rose to their feet. A few seconds
later she didn’t know why she’d reacted so fiercely. Maybe it was the mere
suggestion of hurting someone so helpless, someone who was in her care, whether
she wanted to be caring for that person or not.

“I hit a doctorly nerve, didn’t I?” Bongo gave her a soft
smile, with a little impishness shining in his eyes for good measure.

“I’m a chemist. Not a doctor.” At the moment, though, she
acknowledged that there wasn’t much difference, as far as Urna was concerned.

“Well, then, madam chemist—what do
you
want to do
with him?”

The Guard. Call the Guard. This was serious. This was the
sort of thing you reported or you lived just long enough to regret with every
fiber of your being that you hadn’t. Still, this man had fled the Lux. She
loathed the Lux. He must have reasons for what he’d done. And who was she to
decide his life for him? If he wanted to run away, he ought to have the chance
to do so.

These were naїve thoughts. This was a vastly dangerous
situation and she could never convince herself otherwise.

Nevertheless, to Bongo she said, “You still got that old car
of yours? I want to load him into it before my assistants get here. It’ll look
suspicious if the lab is closed two days running, so I’ll stay here. I want you
to drive him to my place. I notice you still haven’t given me my key back. I’d
like you to get him inside and keep him there until I get back. He’ll wake up
before I come home. He might want more drugs. Distract him, keep him occupied,
whatever it takes. Tell him I can give him what he needs.”

Bongo had listened in silence. His smile now became a
somewhat devilish grin. “That’s what you want, huh?”

“You asked.”

“I did.” He nodded. “Okay. That’s what we’ll do. Give me ten
minutes and I’ll go get the car. I keep in it a shed not far from here. It
barely runs anymore, but I think it’ll make it the few blocks.” With that,
Bongo turned and marched away toward the front door.

Virge felt a great surge of gratitude. Maybe she had
drastically underestimated the man. Apparently he could be counted on in a
crisis. It was a good quality in a person.

She looked down on the man in her care once more. She
brushed aside a long strand of pale hair. His was the face of an elf. He was
beautiful. But just how dangerous was this Weapon?

* * * * *

There were several indistinct but not unpleasant surfacings
before he became truly awake. The drug need was no longer gnawing at him and
that feeling of impending death had retreated to a seemingly safe distance.
Urna was aware of being warm, snug, of softness underneath him, of a roof
overhead. Tiny tendrils of dream wriggled through his mind and he remembered
that he was the only one of his kind who did dream. Shadowflashes didn’t dream
either, so far as he knew. The dreams were fragmentary, just bits of mental
nonsense. Woven in amongst them were slivers of words in various languages,
some from ancient tongues he’d come across in his reading of old Elyrian texts,
some quite possibly conjured up by his imagination. This was the sort of
linguistic lunacy he liked to scribble on his walls, in his quarters.

Finally he opened his eyes.

Bare beams above, sloping walls. Blankets enveloped him.
This didn’t match at all his last wisp of memory, of being in that laboratory.
Things had gotten very hazy well before that, though. He recalled leaving
behind the stolen vehicle, then following a road on foot. How exhausting it had
been. He had stumbled through the night. Then—the town! Yes, barely smeared
with the coming of sunrise, its streets deserted. Somehow he had found the lab.
And he’d gotten in, couldn’t quite remember how…

Urna shifted in what he realized was a bed. The frame
creaked. He felt thirst in his throat. He loosed a hand from the covers and
rubbed at his eyes. He felt better than he had. How long had he slept? And
where the hell was he?

Had Rune caught him? Was he back at the Citadel?

Those last thoughts, urgent and alarming, caused him to sit
up sharply in the bed. It wasn’t too smart a move. His head whirled and every
ache in his body came suddenly alive. He felt the strain in his legs from all
the walking. Bruises smarted here and there. He didn’t remember getting into a
fight. He might’ve merely fallen down or injured himself getting inside the
lab.

That vent. High up on the wall. Almost spent, he had leaped
for it, he now recalled. It had been a massive effort on his part, but his need
had driven him relentlessly. Vague memories of wriggling into the duct, pulling
the grate closed behind him, bumping around inside, dropping down into the
uninhabited but cluttered workspace. There—yes, yes—he had found the substances
his body cried out for.

The twirling whiteness in his head slowly cleared. After
he’d blinked his blue eyes for several moments he saw that he was in a loft of
some sort. And that he wasn’t alone any longer.

Urna started, realizing as he did that his clothes had been
removed. He was naked under these blankets. That didn’t much concern him. Of
more immediate worry was the figure at the top of the ladder nearby the bed.
The man with the blond hair was gazing at him with arresting green eyes, a look
of amazement on his rather handsome features.

“I’ve got water,” the man said, “and I’ve got food. Which do
you want first?” And indeed he held a glass in one hand, a small cardboard
package in the other.

Urna studied his face a moment then said, “Water.” Whatever
was happening here, he would go along with it long enough to quench his parched
throat.

The man came the rest of the way up the ladder, balancing
nimbly, and handed Urna the glass. The water was cool and instantly refreshing.
His head cleared further.

“Let me tell you a few things that might put you at ease,”
said the blond-haired male, smiling, though the wonder hadn’t left his eyes.
“We know you’re Urna, the Weapon. We know you’ve fled the Citadel, and that the
Guard are looking for you. We—”

“We?” Urna asked, his voice stronger now.

“Me. My name’s Bongo. And Virge. This is her house. She also
runs the laboratory where we found you.”

Urna didn’t recognize this man, nor did the name Virge tug
any part of his memory. They must have discovered him unconscious after he’d
gobbled down the drugs he had found. Probably lucky for him he hadn’t
overdosed.

“Where is this
Virge
?”

“Still at her lab,” Bongo said. “She’ll be back later. She
asked me to…keep an eye on you.”

He was doing that at least, Urna noted. Still gazing with a
strange kind of rapture at him. But was Bongo also his captor? Certainly he
didn’t look like Lux.

“You hungry?” Bongo rattled the cardboard container he held
as Urna drained the glass of water. “Protein rations. I’d cook up some hot food
but there’s nothing to cook.”

Urna sat up straighter in the bed. The covers fell down
around his waist, baring his lean but finely molded torso. He reached out for
the package. “Yeah, I could eat.” Opening the flap after Bongo handed it over,
he found rectangles of some semi-gelatinous matter, coated in a sort of
breading. They tasted bland but not disagreeable and he chewed and swallowed
several.

Looking up at Bongo when he’d had his fill, he judged that
he could handle this individual, even if the man were concealing a weapon
somewhere on him.

“Thank you for the water and food,” Urna said.

It brightened his well-modeled face. “You’re wel—” he
started to say.

Before he could finish, Urna had bounded up from the bed,
whipping one of the blankets over Bongo’s head, pivoting tightly, using his
knee to take the man’s legs out from under him, then dumping him summarily onto
the mattress. Urna ended by pouncing atop him, his strong legs clamping Bongo’s
arms, choking the blanket firmly around his skull.

When he was absolutely certain he had the male secured, Urna
said, “Okay. You’re not Guard. But for all I know you’ve got Guard downstairs
or surrounding this place, wherever it is. Who the fuck are you? Why’re you
helping me?”

Bongo was still spluttering. After a few seconds, though, he
ceased to struggle, probably realizing how hopeless it was. He drew several
breaths. Even so, his voice shook a little under the muffling cover as he said,
“I’m a civilian. So is Virge. We’re not Lux, not Guard, not military. We know
you because you’re famous. You…you kind of fell into our laps. We figured,
Virge and me both, that you needed help. She gave you something to stabilize
you back at the lab. I loaded your dead ass into my car and drove you here, to
say nothing of hauling you up that ladder and tucking you into bed. You don’t
want to be grateful—that’s fine. But you’ve got no call to be treating me like
this!”

It put an involuntary smile on Urna’s face. Apparently this
man had some guts. Still straddling his body and pinning his arms, Urna pulled
the blanket off his head. His blond hair was in disarray.

“My name’s Urna. I’ve run away. I don’t want to serve the
Lux anymore.” He paused, sensing how crucial this moment was, then went on, “I
want to know things about myself. I’m seeking knowledge.” He heard the
plaintive note that sounded in his words. He was more than just physically exposed
to this Bongo now.

Sympathy showed in the green eyes. “Maybe we can help. I
hate the Lux.” When he made to move his right arm, Urna tightened, then relaxed
his taut bare thigh and let the man’s hand slip free. Bongo lifted it and
traced his fingertips along Urna’s jawline. “You’re so fucking gorgeous in
person it’s unreal.”

Urna was surprised. Both by this man’s bold overtures, and
by his own response—which was a mix of reciprocal desire for Bongo (after all,
he was quite handsome) and a vague dawning realization that this might be what
it was like being famous. That was, if you could get out among the people who
admired you for your feats. Urna supposed his exploits were, in fact,
admirable. He was the best of the Weapons. He’d killed more Passengers than any
five other teams put together.

There was the rub, though. He was part of a
team
. No
way he’d have survived, much less accumulated so amazing a body count, without
Rune acting as his spotter, telling him where every enemy was coming from.