“Looks exactly like you, my lord,” a baron from the western islands said in a measured tone.
The lord baron narrowed his cold eyes and started to draw a blaster. “And what does that mean, shit-eater?” he growled in an icy voice.
The visiting baron went pale and began to sputter apologies, when a bedraggled sec man stumbled into the throne room pushing his way past the armed guards and guests.
“Who dares!” Kinnison began, then saw it was Lieutenant Brandon. The baron scowled at the man’s appearance, clothes torn and bloody, his face slashed with a dozen half-healed scars, some of his black hair burned away, and an expression that announced serious trouble.
“My lord, we need to speak in private,” Brandon said quickly, giving the most cursory of salutes. His hand was bandaged, and it was obvious two of his fingers had been broken.
Kinnison felt a blind rage build at the implied discourtesy, especially on such a day as this! Then he saw the grim determination in the sec chiefs face and forced down his fury.
“My private chambers,” he directed, and rose to his feet. “The audience is over for today. Come back tomorrow.”
As the fat man waddled for the door, the slaves and bodyguards hurried to follow, but not getting close enough to chance touching their master and catching his dread sickness.
“What the fuck was that about?” a baron muttered softly.
Another sipped his wine before speaking. “Perhaps,” he said in a hushed tone, “those clones that don’t exist have come to call upon our lord and master.”
“Wouldn’t that be a shame,” another added, failing to hide his smile.
“Yes, wouldn’t it just be—” he paused to find the correct word “—a total disaster.”
“Poor man would never be able to fight the muties and defend this island, would he?”
“That’s not for me to say,” the first baron replied. “At this time.”
Slaves opened the door to the room before the baron, and quickly closed it behind Brandon. The brick walls were lined with longblasters, handcannons and even rapidfires. Covering an entire wall was a detailed painting of the Marshall Islands, every known landmass, island and atoll clearly in beautiful detail. Some sections of the wall map were raised higher than others, layers upon layers of corrections lifting the features until it was almost a contoured relief map.
“Well?” Kinnison demanded, the second the door closed.
“I lost the fleet,” Brandon reported, taking a chair. Damn, he was tired.
“Ten ships? How is that possible?”
“And Cold Harbor ville was on fire the last time I saw it,” Brandon added wearily. “Probably burned to the ground by now.”
“Tell me everything,” Kinnison demanded, and the sec men explained in detail—the fight, the pirates, the outlanders, the mesa with the predark machinery.
“So you chilled the outlanders and smashed the device,” Kinnison said. It wasn’t a question.
“The machine for sure, my lord,” Brandon answered truthfully. “If we don’t control it, no science must be allowed in the islands.”
“Correct.”
“However, I didn’t see the dead bodies of those outlanders. It’s possible they survived the fall. I doubt it highly, but you never know.”
Going behind his desk, Kinnison slumped in a massive chair built just for his bulk. “At least that machine is gone,” he grunted, running his hands along the smooth polished top of the desk. “Unfortunately, we have also lost our main source of flash.”
The baron rubbed the corner of his mouth, his hand coming away stained with red. “Were there any young girls with forked tongues involved in this?”
The lieutenant managed to keep a neutral face. How the hell did the fat bastard know about her?
“No, my lord,” Brandon lied, “there weren’t.”
“Good,” Kinnison said, grimacing. “If you run across any, chill them on sight. No rape, no torture, just a round in the head. Understood?”
“Yes, my lord. It shall be done.”
“I have a son,” Kinnison said from out of nowhere.
The comment startled Brandon, but he smiled broadly. “My congratulations, my lord. What’s his name?”
“Corbet.”
“Good name. May he rule for a hundred years!”
“Of course,” Kinnison said, waving that away. “With the loss of the flash, this places me in an awkward situation with the western islands. The villes are fighting each other again, and if I refuse them both black powder, I could appear weak. It is possible the fools might join forces to attack us.”