Leonard stayed in his chair, breathing heavily, then stood and saluted. “I understand. Yes, sir.”
Going to the door, Leonard stuck his head outside. Minutes later, two burly sec men dragged a scrawny man into the room. They efficiently tied the near corpse to a stout wooden chair, and upon a signal from Leonard went back outside.
Drawing a revolver, Gunther extracted every bullet but one. Spinning the cylinder, he aimed and pulled the trigger. Harvin jumped involuntarily at the click.
The baron spun it again. “My patience is gone, old man. Tell me where the weapons are.”
“Never,” the former baron said.
“Then where are the bats hidden, or how can we control them? Colored flags? Special clothes? Some odor, hand signals, whistles?”
For a brief instant, Gunther thought the former baron registered surprise, but then realized it was just a tick brought on by the starvation and torture.
“Tell me!” Strichland shouted, dry firing the revolver again and again.
“Never tell you.” Harvin cackled, smiling toothlessly. “Took my ville, but you can’t keep it. Keep it. That’s a joke. Hee-hee.”
Leonard lashed out and slapped the bound man, teeth and spittle spraying across the room. “Obey my father, or die!”
Bleeding freely, the former baron sat there with his head tilted. Then ever so slowly he turned to stare at the hated usurper, the fire of reason burning bright in his face.
“You have trained the little bastard well, thief. He’s a most fitting son for a traitor,” Harvin said in a clear voice. “And while you managed to steal the ville, you’ll never keep it.”
Then madness welled within the man. After so many months, he simply couldn’t hold the secret in any longer. “Only Harold and I know how to control the guardians!” he shrieked insanely. “And Harold’s dead! Which leaves me. Eventually, the muties will get past whatever you’re using to stop them, and then it’s your day in the barrel.”
“You lose,” he said, sneering in triumph. “Can’t keep it.”
Father and son stared in astonishment at each other, then both slowly smiled.
“Excellent.” Gunther sighed. “I knew keeping that gimp around would pay off.”
“Thank you so much for helping us,” Leonard said, feeling a wonderful rush of power from the terror of the old man.
“No, impossible,” Harvin whispered, going deathly pale. “You told me months ago that Harold was dead. Showed me his corpse!”
“A corpse,” Gunther corrected with a smirk. “An invader who resembled your friend, nothing more.”
“No…”
“Harold lives,” Gunther stated, coming closer. “And now that I know he has the secret, I have no need of you.” Cracking the cylinder of the blaster, the baron loaded every hole.
Sweat began to run off the man. Harvin pleaded,
“No, wait! I can tell you where the weapon caches are! And how to get past the traps!”
“Don’t care.” Closing the blaster with a snap of the wrist, Gunther spun the cylinder for no reason, placed the muzzle to the old man’s chest and shot him dead.
Feeling ill, Leonard stared at the corpse. He had been an enemy of the ville and deserved to die. It was a job to be done, and he did what he had to. Yet there was an odd, almost sexual energy to the act of murder. This contradiction confused him greatly.
“Send out a dozen…no, twenty sec men,” the baron ordered. “And tell them not to come back until they have Harold in custody, alive and unharmed. Mind you, he’s useless chilled.”
“The sarge may be outside the walls,” Leonard suggested. “We’ve had trouble finding him before.”
“Then send fifty men, with bolt-action rifles from my private armory and ten live rounds.”
“Ten!”
“We can afford it. Besides, if he is out among the muties, our troops will have to defend themselves, and every dead mutie is a point in our favor.” Then he added, “But first and most importantly, find Harold!”
HAROLD MOVED through the dank pipeway with the surety of a bullet in a barrel. Feeder pipes lined the main conduit, with rusty water dripping constantly from the corroded openings. His footing was treacherous as the curved walls were slimy beneath his hands, but this was the way back home, and every step made his heart feel lighter. He had something better than blasters. He had a doctor’s bag. That saved lives. Lots better than killing. The voices in his head agreed wholeheartedly and complimented him constantly, sometimes painfully loud.