Deep Trek

Overwhelming and burying her.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The chief of the Hunters of the Sun sat waiting patiently in her office, contentedly turning the thin pages of the old nineteenth-century novel. Pride and Prejudice was one of her true all-time favorites.

It was a book that she always enjoyed reading just before going into an interrogation, particularly if it promised to be something a little special.

And Jeff Thomas, ex-journalist, accomplished liar and one-time crew member of the USSV Aquila, looked as though he might be real interesting.

The name of the chief, though hardly any of the subordinates knew it, was Margaret Tabor. She was twenty-seven years old and had been the mistress and associate of the man called Flagg. Not even she knew what his real name had been.

But she knew how important names were. Her degree in socio-psychology at UCLA had brought her few friends, but it had brought one young man, named Owen Johnson, who had discovered while hacking into the college’s personal files that she had a middle name. One that came from way back on her mother’s side. Dildow. Owen had told this fascinating bit of information to four of his close companions, and they’d begun to make her life intolerable with their sneers and scurrilous jokes.

By an extraordinary coincidence all five young men died in bizarre accidents within eleven days of each other. And their sneering died with them. The middle name of Margaret Tabor also vanished forever, disappearing from all of the computer files overnight.

Flagg had contacts at some colleges, and when he came to hear about the strange deaths, he made some connections. That led to a meeting and then to a strangely conventional sexual liaison between himself and the younger woman.

Now Flagg was dead… and she had work to do.

By now her assistant should be over in the farthest wing of the large quasimilitary complex that held Jeff Thomas, along with several other itinerant prisoners. Soon she would be talking to him about Aurora.

And other things.

JOE ENJOYED HIS WORK.

Before Earthblood he’d been happy in a slaughterhouse in Bowling Green, Kentucky. Death fascinated him, and the power of inflicting it gave him a profoundly sexual pleasure. But stupid sheep and cows and spavined mares had gotten to be boring.

Now, once he’d been enlisted into the Hunters of the Sun, Joe was dealing with people. Admittedly most of them were half-starved crips, but it was still better.

There was something about this one—Veronica Poole was the name chalked on the board outside her cell—that was sort of special. Admittedly she was gut-churningly antique and wrinkled, but her body was like that of a woman twenty years younger. The idea of having a little sport with Ms. Poole before letting her dangle off the hook had been a bright one.

And she sure was eager, thought Joe, grinning to himself. Very eager, since she thought that it just might save her miserable old life.

Now she was kneeling in front of him, hands reaching imploringly for him. The marks of his fingers were bright across her cheek. The guard’s eye was caught by a flicker of movement across the corridor. That limp-dick little bastard, trying to peek out through the grille on his door.

“Move the hell away, Thomas!” he shouted, making the cringing woman start in surprise. “You don’t get off watching me getting blown.”

Now she was touching him, rubbing him gently. Joe put one hamlike hand on the back of her skull and roughly jerked her closer.

He laughed again, feeling the tension already rising in expectation of a surging orgasm.

But instead of the beginnings of pleasure he was hit by pain so appalling that his mind simply refused to admit it.

Joe’s eyes closed and his mouth jerked open, blood worming out from where he’d just bitten the end clear off his tongue. His arms spread wide as if he’d been suddenly crucified. But he didn’t make a sound, couldn’t make a sound.

His entire body was paralyzed by the violence of the white agony centered at his groin.

Nanci was up off her knees, her lips peeled back from her teeth in a terrifying rictus of hatred. Her right hand was clamped around the guard’s testicles, nails digging in with appalling ferocity, twisting the scrotal sac, grinding it up against the sharp point of the pubic bone.

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