ElyriasEcstasy (20 page)

He still hoped they would get through. But he wasn’t
counting on it.

The harsh voice snapped at something Bongo said and the lid
of Urna’s hiding place suddenly started to open. Before it lifted more than a
few inches, he shoved hard on it and erupted violently out of the crate. He was
ready for the rush of blinding light. Squinting, he smashed into the person squatting
over the box, slamming with his shoulder and carrying the individual off his
feet and out the open side door of the van.

Urna went with the man, who—not surprisingly—was dressed in
a Guard uniform. He saw Bongo jumping back out of the way. Urna hit the ground
with the Guard. A cramp seized his leg before he could get his feet under him.
Still lying on his side, he drove an elbow into the Guard’s chest. He was a
pudgy man, with a thick, coarse face, but he was no weakling. He grabbed at
Urna’s arm even as the blow to his sternum forced the air from his lungs.

The Guard, also still sprawled in the street, tried to
wrench Urna’s arm. His other hand was scrabbling after the sidearm holstered at
his belt. Urna wondered why none of the other Guard members who must be manning
this checkpoint were intervening.

Even under circumstances as unfamiliar as these, Urna
should’ve been able to dispatch this person easily, calling on his
extraordinary abilities as the Lux’s premier Weapon. But the painful cramp in
his left calf, no doubt caused by being jammed into that crate for a little too
long, was throwing off his whole combative rhythm.

Nonetheless, he rose onto his right knee, pulling free his
arm from the Guard’s strong grip. The stout man had laid his hand on his
pistol’s butt. Urna chopped his open palm across the Guard’s ugly face, more
than hard enough to stun, he judged. Even so, the man continued to draw his
handgun.

Urna struck him again, a lightning-fast blow, feeling the
bridge of the man’s nose crackle under the impact of the hard edge of his hand.
The Guard’s head dropped back onto the street with a dull thump. Blood was
flowing from one nostril.

But
still
he continued to struggle, moaning now, the
flailing hand somehow managing to clear the sidearm from its holster. Urna
awkwardly threw himself on top of his stubborn adversary, pinning his gun hand
to the asphalt. He was going to have to kill this man. So be it.

Urna reached into his coat with his free hand, taking grim
hold of the pistol he had commandeered before going over the fence at the
Citadel. He drew it partway out.

“No!” Suddenly, Bongo reached down and tore the gun out of
the Guard’s trapped hand. “We don’t need to kill him.” And with the butt of
that weapon he whacked the Guard’s skull. This time the man’s eyes rolled
white, and he went limp.

Urna looked around. They were indeed stopped at what looked
like a standard checkpoint. A vibrantly painted, hinged length of wood lay
across the road at about waist level, with a small guardhouse next to it.
Oddly, there were no other Guard about. Even in a town of this size he would’ve
expected more than a single sentry watching the official route in and out. From
what he knew of the Guard—and, more to the point, the Lux who oversaw them—a
constant demonstration of force was considered essential to the smooth running
of things.

The nearest structure beyond the guardhouse of gray brick
was a warehouse, about a quarter mile away. Not one window was lit. No one else
was within sight.

Looking down at the unconscious, bleeding Guard again, Urna
quickly and vigorously massaged his leg. The pain eased as the muscle
unknotted. Bongo had gone pale. He was staring at the gun still in his hand, as
if he didn’t understand how it had gotten there. This, then, must be something
new to him. Whatever else this man did, he didn’t regularly go around clubbing
Guard members.

“Let’s get him into that guardhouse,” Urna said.

Bongo stuck the pistol into the waistband of his pants and
the two of them hauled the considerable weight of the slack uniformed man
inside, dumping him onto a cot by the open door. Urna wiped the blood from the
man’s nose. When he was discovered, it would be assumed he was taking an
unauthorized nap. Rousing him and finding out the truth would use up a minute
or two. Not much time. But it was that much more for an escape, Urna thought.

Glancing around the otherwise empty room, he said, “I don’t
understand why he’s the only one on duty.”

Bongo said, “The others were called away. My comrades
created a distraction on the other side of town. Not enough to get them into
too much trouble, hopefully. But enough to make our way here easier.” As they
headed back to the van he added in a mutter, “I just wish that guy hadn’t been
such an asshole. No way he could tell my pass was a fake. He just wanted to
give me a hard time. Fucking Guard.”

Before they climbed back into the vehicle, Urna, feeling new
respect for the competence of Bongo’s operation, said, “Well, that asshole got
a look at my face. I don’t know how good a look. He didn’t seem to know me
while we were fighting, but he might realize it later. When he wakes up. Of
course, he doesn’t have to wake up…” He patted the bulge the pistol made
underneath his coat.

Bongo shook his head. “Look, I hate the Guard. I hate what
they represent and I hate what they do on a day-to-day basis. But killing them
isn’t the answer. That’s not the way the Order of the Maji likes to do things.”
He opened the driver’s door, paused, added, “Besides, if we murder one of
theirs, they’ll slaughter ten times that many, just to make their point.”

Urna nodded, going around the other side of the van, getting
in, hauling shut the door. In the dark again, he wondered if this “Order of the
Maji” shtick was something real, or just a kind of harmless make-believe.

He didn’t dwell on it, though. The van was moving once more,
picking up speed, leaving behind the town that had neatly served the fugitive
Weapon as a brief sanctuary.

* * * * *

His attendants brought in the young male just as the man’s
peculiar cycle was beginning. He blinked in that fashion of his, as if hoping
each blink would bring this setting into proper mental focus. It didn’t help.
The expression on his alluringly innocent face was one of confusion, with fear
creeping in underneath, and it only worsened.

Aphael Chav had just set down the Guard report—or the
summaries of those reports from the officers leading the many different
branches of the Safe’s policing force. Whoever was condensing all that
information into easily digestible, comprehensible accounts was doing a superb
job. He ought to give a commendation to the studious clerk, whoever he was.
Chances were, though, that Aphael wouldn’t remember to. It wasn’t the duty of
the Toplux, after all, to go around congratulating people for performing the
services required of them. He wasn’t father to any of them. He was their
overlord.

He rose from the broad desk of gleaming, ancient wood just
as his servants retreated from his spacious private quarters, leaving the
waiflike male standing lost out in the middle of the plush burgundy carpet.

One of the Guard units had reported the discovery and
destruction of an array of illegal solar collectors, which a pirate crew of
civilians had been operating on the outskirts of some hardscrabble town sixty
miles from the Citadel. No one gathered electricity from the sun without the
authorization of the Lux. So it had been, so it would continue.

This was the last thought Aphael Chav spared for the day’s
official business as he leisurely made his way toward the perplexed young man.
He was a trim specimen with barely an ounce of adult fat on him, despite that
he was a fully grown. They didn’t let children into the Weapon/Shadowflash
program, after all.

Not that this poor, afflicted creature still belonged to
that elite division of the military.

Though Aphael had witnessed the male in this state dozens
and dozens of times, it still fascinated him. He never reacted violently. Never
lashed out physically. Instead, he just stood there and looked around and hoped
for some clue to kick his wounded memory back into life. He wanted to know
where he was, why he was here. He wanted to know—limpid gray eyes flicking now
toward the Toplux—who this person was approaching him.

Aphael gave him a warm smile this time. It wasn’t always how
he started things out.

After a few seconds, the young man returned the smile. It
looked a bit twitchy but seemed sincere. A questioning longing shone in those
gray eyes.

“You look beautiful tonight,” said Aphael. Again, it wasn’t
the way he always proceeded. But that was the pleasure of this—he could
reinvent the game every time. He could be a sadist, a confidant, a madman, a
nursemaid. He could offer succor or torture. He could scream obscenities or coo
the most ridiculously loving words. It was entirely up to him.

“Th-thank you.” The man wore a simply constructed but
elegantly embroidered white gown, sleeveless. His feet were bare. He still had
the long hair—a lustrous raven black—that the Weapons and Shadowflashes
favored.

Aphael halted a few steps shy of his visitor. Though these
private quarters, which he kept at the Citadel itself, were quite roomy, they
had a snug intimacy to them, owing to the warm, dark colors of the walls and
furnishings. He found living here very comfortable, preferring it to one of
those gargantuan estates that infested the surrounding city. It was better, he
thought, to inhabit the Citadel proper. The very symbol of Lux domination. He
liked being close, at all times, to the accoutrements and apparatuses of power.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t find the time for some
recreation.
Even a king must sport.
Had some ancient Elyrian philosopher
said that? Didn’t matter. Aphael Chav had said it, and in this his era, that
was the only thing that counted.

“Would you like a drink?” Aphael asked solicitously.

The gray eyes continued to blink. His was truly a lovely
face. “Um…yes?”

The Toplux hid a laugh and crossed toward a sideboard of
waxy, dark yellow wood. He put together a drink for his guest, something
sweet-tasting. Before returning with it Aphael Chav touched a control that
activated the room’s sound system. Music flowed from speakers. Soaring strings,
murmuring wind instruments. It was something very old, a recording disc that
one of the authorized salvage teams had found in the Unsafe. He enjoyed the
sounds, though he could scarcely imagine what number of musicians had been
required to create such a magnificent wall of melody. The old Elyria must have
truly been a world of wonder.

Even so, he preferred this Elyria. Because this Elyria was
his
Elyria.

He handed the thick crystal glass to the young man, who
sniffed at its contents, took a tentative sip, and smiled again, more broadly
now.

“That’s tasty!”

“I’m glad you like it,” Aphael said, pleased with this
interplay. It was never the same twice.

His visitor happily downed another swallow. After a moment,
though, the confusion and unease returned to his youthful features. “I…” Again
he looked around the room, but found no prompting clues. “I guess I’ve got
questions.”

“Then you should ask.” The Toplux folded his hands, waited.

The young male fortified himself with another swallow from
the glass. He looked levelly at Aphael. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. I
don’t think I should be here.”

“Where do you think you ought to be?”

“I…” He pursed his delicate lips. His eyes were long-lashed,
and when he blinked them rapidly, as he was doing now, it gave him an almost
feminine air. “I was someplace else. Just a minute ago. I think.”

Sometimes at this point Aphael would provide his hapless
guest with wildly convoluted information, spinning tales of absolute fantasy,
the more outrageous the better. And this man, having no other source for
“facts”, had to believe him.

But tonight, evidently, Aphael wasn’t in the mood for such
entertainments.

“Where were you,” he asked, “just a minute ago?” Though he
knew full well that the
minute
was actually five months ago.

Frowning, the young male said, “I was on a rooftop. In a
city. A dead city. Me and…” Suddenly the eyes went wide. “Nera! Where’s Nera?
My Shadowflash! I have to—have to—”

Aphael caught the nearly empty glass before he dropped it.
The former Weapon was trembling. Setting a hand on his shoulder, feeling bone
and lean, hard muscle, the Toplux said gently, “There’s nothing to worry about.”

“But—” He continued quivering. “What’s
happened
?”
Pleading in his voice. Desperate to know what had befallen him.

On impulse, Aphael decided to tell him the truth. “You’ve
had a massive memory failure. What you remember as having happened a few minutes
ago actually occurred nearly half a year ago. You broke down during a mission.”

The gray eyes stayed wide but his trembling abruptly ceased.
Without a quaver in his voice now, he asked, “What happened to Nera?”

Aphael’s hand was still on the man’s shoulder. He squeezed.
“Nera is fine. He was reassigned. He still serves as a Shadowflash, mostly
accompanying salvage gangs into the Unsafe.”

“Reassigned,” the erstwhile Weapon said in a dead tone. He
was staring past Aphael Chav into some desolate distance. His eyes filled with
tears. When he finally blinked again, tracks ran down his finely sculpted
cheeks. His girlishly long lashes glistened.

“It had to be so, Rale,” said the Toplux, employing the
man’s name—or, rather, his former codename—for the first time. He stepped
closer and took the narrow, muscular male into a tender embrace. Rale set a
damp cheek against Aphael’s neck. The much older man stroked the youth’s long
dark hair.

It required no serious coaxing to get Rale to come with him
across the broad expanse of carpet as the ancient music continued to play.
Horns sounded softly. Strings sang. Bass drums were thumped. They approached
the enormous platform that was the Toplux’s bed.