A stern, masculine voice calls from somewhere within the room. “Fay Kricket, you may come in.”
I push back images of a brutal foster father I once had, thinking, Don’t show fear. They live for it. I take a tentative step off the overup. No one else accompanies me.
The dark, hardwood floor beneath my feet squeaks from a loose floorboard, the noise echoes in the tomblike atmosphere of the room. The overup doors slide closed behind me, shutting off the sliver of light. As my eyes adjust to the dimness, I realize I’ve been let off in the center of the room where just this table resides to greet its visitors.
“Take a flower, if you’d like,” the man in the room offers, his tone far from warm. I squint toward the right side of the chamber. In the direction from which the voice came I see a wide, beautifully carved mahogany desk. The dark wing-backed chair behind it is turned toward the wall-window, the glass of which has been darkened so that it doesn’t let in much light, but does not impede the breathtaking view of the skyline. Nothing of the man is visible above the black upholstery of the chair.
I clear my throat before I say, “I would take a flower, but I have this thing against cranium-boring worms: I don’t like them.”
He doesn’t turn to face me. “I was told that znous are your favorite. I had the worms removed especially for you.”
“It’d be a shame to spoil the carefully planned arrangement,” I decline, speaking less about the flowers and more about whatever he has in mind for me.
From the left-hand side of the room, a watery-blue light flickers on, drawing my attention to it. My breath catches in my throat. I reach out to the table in front of me to hold it for support, disturbing the flower arrangement and causing several white and fuchsia znou petals to fall to the dark surface.
“Manus!” My whisper is involuntary.
Ahead of me, the entire wall on the left-hand side of the room is a tank, like the kind I’d seen at Shedd Aquarium for the shark exhibit. This one is a bit different, however, in that it doesn’t have exotic fish in it, or a sunken lighthouse, or a treasure chest. It only has one occupant: Manus. With a partial mask over his nose and mouth, he’s encased in a maze of tubing amid bubbling, gurgling fluid. Readouts light up one side of the glass, pulsing and flashing in waves and colors. My hand sweeps the table; I grasp some of the fallen znou petals in my fist.
I steady myself before I walk to the tank on trembling legs, gently touching the coolness of the glass that separates us with the tips of my fingers. I pull them back as a display lights up.
The male voice is just behind me now. I don’t look over my shoulder at him when he says, “They just finished installing him here a few fleats ago,” he explains, using his word that means “minutes.” “I said it was for his protection, but between you and me, he’s more of a souvenir.”
“A souvenir?” He’s totally evil, I think. I’m afraid to turn around and see him.
“We never did get along.” He walks to stand next to me, leaning near the glass. He taps on it with his fingernails. I give him a quick glance, just catching his profile. He’s old-looking, with streaks of white in his once-black hair. It means he must be ancient, maybe thousands of years old.
A thin, red scar runs from his left eye to his mouth; it puckers his lip on one side, giving him a snarl. I wonder at the reason he never had it removed—or wrapped, as they call it, like most citizens do when they receive wounds that scar. I doubt it’s for the same reason Wayra doesn’t: I don’t think the blushers would be attracted to him, scar or not. However old he is, though, he’s still formidable. He’s nowhere near grandfatherly, unless the grandfather was ex–Special Forces and addicted to steroids. I doubt very much that I’d last more than a second with him in a fight, not a fair one anyway. He towers over me.
He holds a very stylized handheld cig-a-like smoker. It’s silver with a few gold cog-like coins embossed on the long shaft. He puts the black mouthpiece to his lips and sucks in the water vapor from the pipe. He exhales a puff of fragrance not unlike brown sugar. I silently vow to never eat anything that smells like that again.
I turn away from him, facing Manus in the medical stasis tank once more. “What happened to him?” I ask. One shoulder looks as if it had been bitten off by a rather large shark, and there are burns that go to the bone on his legs, abdomen, and face.
“Haut Manus”—his stress on Manus’s elite title is less than respectful—“was wounded quite severely. I believe he was struck by sonic sayzers—he has contusions—”
“Excuse me, but what are sonic sayzers?”
“It’s a weapon strapped to the arm.” He moves his liver-spotted wrist between me and the tank and makes gestures indicating the weapon is affixed somehow on one’s wrist and aimed Spider-Man style. “It projects sound in bursts at frequencies that can shatter bones and rupture cells.” He drops his wrist to his side, drawing another puff from his cig-a-like.
“Where does the sound come from?”
“Preprogrammed frequencies. Some are milder than others. Injuries can be superficial or substantial, based upon the calibration. The Regent suffered injuries that are consistent with a lethal frequency.” He doesn’t sound unhappy about the unfortunate injuries suffered by his sovereign.
“So they’re killer noisemakers.” I interpret. “Where did this happen?”
“The Alameeda caught him in the floral gardens of the palace. The sonic sayzers ruptured cells in his upper right torso, right shoulder, neck, and cranial areas. He had to have regenerative skin grafts and cell modifications.” He touches the tank and a log of the procedure lights up, projecting images of Manus and his injuries onto the glass so that I can view it. I wince. It’s gruesome.
“But he’ll live, right?” I ask, irritated that I’m worried about Manus after all he did to me. He’s a complication I don’t need, but I don’t hope for his death.
“Your fiancé will survive,” he assures me.
“I’m no longer the Regent’s fiancée. That ended last night.”
“Oh, I know. You were never going to commit to him. You haven’t asked me who I am yet,” the man adds in a sinister tone. This is a game to him and he’s enjoying it.
“I know who you are. You’re Head Defense Minister Telek.”
“You surprise me,” he says disdainfully, with a cold glare. He must not like surprises. “Is that one of your priestess gifts?”
“Hardly. Your soldiers read your order to us when we were arrested. You ordered me into your custody for interrogation. So . . . here I am.”
“Yes, here you are,” he agrees. “It has been reported that you had some prior knowledge that there would be an Alameeda attack last night.”