The young Henderson was wearing camou-colored military fatigues, combat boots, with matching blasters on each hip. He was dressed like a soldier for combat, and only resembled his grandfather in the set of his shoulders and the madness in his face. The Hendersons had been breeding with their own bloodline for generations to try to purify the family of any weakness. Many were born without arms or legs, some unable to breath on their own. These were simply aced and burned, their very births denied. William had been the first whole Henderson in three decades, and while his body was perfect, even his grandfather feared the cold temper of the young Adonis. Shaking off the youth’s hand, the baron said nothing as he looked over the destruction of Casanova ville. Almost four hundred people had died in the attack, nearly half of his sec men and damn near every horse they owned. Plus, the wags and juice. The loss of slaves and blasters alone was heartbreaking.
“Fifteen minutes,” the baron said aloud.
Crossing his arms, William nodded. “One of the guards was doing a slave in the bushes. He had just started when he heard the screaming and felt a wave of heat. Unfortunately, he didn’t look up until he finished, and saw the castle slag to the ground like melting ice.”
“You killed him, of course,” the baron said, rising stiffly. Even the jolt couldn’t remove all his pain these days. “The damn fool should have turned at once. Always time to hump a slut, but this could have been a chem fire, lightning strike, something controllable. There might have been something he could have done to save my ville!”
Narrowing his eyes to slits, William stared at the old reprobate, limbs quivering from the jolt, wine and semen staining his clothes as flies buzzed everywhere. Blood of his blood, the young man was still repulsed by the stinking whitehair.
“We strapped a knife to the slut and tied him down to a tree stump,” William said. “Offered her freedom if she chilled him.”
The baron stood taller, a faint smile playing on his chapped lips. “Original,” he said with a chuckle. “Most amusing. The man died fast? No, wait. She took her time, savoring the kill. How long before he stopped begging for you to release him and switched to begging for you to chill him?”
“Two hours. The girl had style.”
“Excellent. Bring her to my tent tonight.”
“I can’t. She’s gone,” his grandson replied. “I gave my word and set her free afterward.”
Turning his back on the desolation of the congealing stoneworks, the baron shook his head sadly. “Honor and dignity, gods of the atom, what crap! I never should have let your idiot mother raise you.”
“Really?” William said low and dangerous. “Yet it is only my word to my mother that keeps me here protecting you, you filthy disgusting old freak.” He drew a blaster and pressed the barrel to the man’s temple. “Black dust, I want to chill you more than I can say!”
The old baron grinned, displaying his assortment of stained and rotting teeth. “Then do it,” he prodded. “Or shut the fuck up and get out of my way. You’re as weak as your father was.”
Snarling wordlessly, William cocked back the hammer and tightened his grip on the trigger, conflicting emotions storming across his handsome features. Then with a sigh, his broad shoulders slumped and he bolstered the blaster. “I gave my word,” William said softly, not really speaking to his grandfather. “And a soldier keeps his word, especially to himself.”
“To himself most of all,” the baron agreed, and the left pocket of his suit violently exploded, the heavy slug from the concealed blaster taking his grandson in the chest.
Stumbling backward, the young man hit a tree, a look of shock contorting his flawless face.
“Please,” he wheezed, holding up a hand for protection while pressing a palm against the wet hole in his chest. Icy fire filled his limbs and a great wave of weakness stole his strength. It was quickly becoming impossible to breath. “Grandfather!”
Drawing the .22 revolver from his smoking pocket, the baron aimed and shot the dying man again in the knees, the groin, then the gut, trying to make the pain as great as possible. Burbling blood filling his mouth, William fell to the ground, a fumbling hand clawing at his own weapon. The baron kicked the hand away and placed the hot barrel to the temple of his dying grandson.
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