Burning Bright

“Come to me,” Belfortune whispered. “Come here, you, I feel you walking there, come to me now…” The words trailed off into a hissing murmur, rising and falling with his slow breath. He could feel the hunter’s presence, a vague warmth beyond the cold wall, allowed his own hunger to rise to match that warmth, played out his desire as a fisherman plays a line, a thread of appetite disguised as curiosity. He could feel the hunter’s presence more clearly now, and recognized the man, had considered him a friend, but his unleashed hunger accepted that knowledge only as a way to make the bait more attractive. He leaned against the thin metal of the wall, flattening himself against the cool surface as though he could feel the hunter’s body against his own, and let the tendril of thought unfold. He felt the hunter take the bait, felt him turn his attention toward the faint, stray presence, the oddity that must be investigated, and kept tight control of his own power, letting the hunter’s own curiosity draw him nearer. Belfortune could almost see the slight frown, the familiar lines of his face; he pressed himself harder against the wall, willing the hunter closer. And then, at last, he was close enough. Belfortune smiled, let himself go at last, and felt the hunter’s whole body jerk convulsively as he realized he was no longer free. Belfortune felt him struggle and tightened his grip, felt the sudden terrified release as the hunter’s shields failed, and tasted the hunter’s power, his strength and his cunning and the delicate flavor of his mind. He drained him, not bothering to savor it—there was no time for such niceties, and it had been too long since the last one, anyway—and saw/felt, in the last moment of double vision, the hunter’s body slumping to the ground just on the other side of the wall. He slid down the wall with it, sucking the last dregs of life, and crouched there for a moment, breathing hard.

Faro looked away, swallowing bile, unwilling to watch the sated hunger turn to disgust in Belfortune’s eyes. “Tell them it’s done,” he said, and a whispering voice said, from the end of the corridor, “Tell who what, Faro?”

Faro spun, gun leveled, even as he knew it was useless, and felt as much as heard the snap of a laser bolt. He ducked instinctively, but the shot had been meant as a warning only.

“Hold your fire,” the voice said. It came from the closed cabin of an airsled that blocked the corridor behind them. Soldiers—soldiers in the black uniforms of Baron Vortex’s elite troops—flanked it, their lasers lowered and ready. Belfortune shook his head, trying to drive away the cloying satisfaction, made a small, pained noise of despair. The voice went on, as though no one had spoken. “Faro, you’re not a fool. I think we can come to some agreement.”

Faro hesitated, the muzzle of his gun wavering slightly—to fire was suicide, his and Belfortune’s, but the speaker was Baron Vortex, and the Baron could never be trusted.

“I find you useful,” the voice went on, “just useful enough to salvage from this mess. Put down your gun, and I’ll let you live.”

Faro dredged a laugh from somewhere. “To what end?”

“I told you, I find you useful,” the voice said. “You can return to your previous employment.”

“Not much better off than the prisoners,” Faro muttered, said more loudly, “What about Bel?”

“Ah.” There was a note like amusement in the Baron’s voice. “For him, there is a price.”

“Well?” Faro said.

“I asked you before, tell who what,” the voice said. “But I think I know that. Where are they, Faro? Where are Avellar and the rest?”

“Faro,” Belfortune said, and the word was ambiguous appeal.

Faro glanced down at him, at the renewed sanity in the pale eyes, saw him start to pull himself to his feet, clinging to the wall of the cargo bay, looked back at the Baron’s airsled and the flanking soldiers. He let the gun fall to his side.

“Your lands and your lover,” the voice whispered. “You can still have them both. Is Avellar’s rebellion worth that much to you?”

“I don’t know for sure,” Faro said. “She—they were back toward the middle of the bay, heading for a ship.”

He paused, hoping that would be enough, a large enough betrayal, saw the nearest soldier raise his laser, and waited for the Baron to pronounce the sentence.

“Put down your gun, Faro,” the Baron said at last, and Faro laid the pistol on the floor tiles, kicked it toward the line of soldiers. Two of them came forward, slinging their rifles, and Faro let them drag him forward, stood quite still as they ran their hands roughly over his body, then locked his wrists together behind his back. Another pair dragged Belfortune to his feet, and did the same to him.

Flame flared overhead, bursting from the shattering light fixtures, and raw electricity leaped like lightning from the power nodes. One of the soldiers fired reflexively at the snapping currents, and screamed as the laser’s power pack exploded in a sheet of flame.

“Harmsway,” Belfortune said, and the pale eyes were suddenly alive again.