{Gait | Two and half million years ago}
“The nacre-less boy. I want that one. Beautiful, isn’t he? Yes, that’s my request for Razor this month.”
Triss, the red-feathered Lyrik, chuffed. “You wish. You can’t afford him. And there’s nothing you can offer that’s worth Razor’s time.”
Korac silently thanked whatever divine entity fucked him over this badly, because at least he wasn’t forced to entertain that sweaty slob. And they always sweat on him. The swine.
Footsteps sounded down the metal hall. He recognized them. Good shoes were hard to come by, and he wanted a pair so badly. Shiny, the way the man in nice pants polished them. The footfalls rounded the corner. White pants this time. Yes, one day, he’d wear white pants like those with shiny black shoes.
The man pressed the Lyrik against the wall, and Korac shrank into his rags. He hoped to disappear. Poof. Gone.
Muttered exchanges. Not all of it about sex. As they finished, the man said, “I’m taking him outside, and then things will be different.”
“I’m ready.” She sounded quite ready and smelled like it, too. Roses filled the air.
Their lips smacking ensued once more, and Korac knew to keep his eyes low. Never look anyone in the eyes. Never see faces made to haunt his dreams into Eternity. Never let them have his gaze.
“Contaminant, come with me.”
With the voice more clear, Korac nearly recognized it. A smooth tenor that might produce rich laughter. So close to naming him—
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The white light in the prison yard.
The four other children disappeared.
Korac lay on the ground, staring into the purple sky. A frightening pale blue face stood over him. The fucking Primary. Remorse. He called to the man in white pants, “We relocate the Atheneum once I receive confirmation of the payload.” The snow crunched as he walked away.
Korac still couldn’t move. The man in white pants knelt at his side with the sun spearing the boy’s gaze. In a deeper voice, he proclaimed, “Now, they will never find you.”
“Korac!”
“Sagan?!”
Korac woke to Sagan’s screams.
He expected her to Seamswalk into his cell. But she never came. Only her crying and begging for him. Was she trapped?
Not bothering to throw on a shirt or shoes, Korac stormed out of his cell in sweats. He charged through the nacre-resistant barrier on his cursed blockmate’s false prison. All the way through the conduit.
Primary Rem waited in the shrine on the other side. Thirteen feet tall with black robes and a compression orb. The man aimed some kind of gun at the Icarus’ chest.
“Remorse. Where is she?” Although his voice came out icy, Korac’s body trembled with a rage hot enough to scald.
The ancient Tritan frowned in an attempt at genuine sadness. He lowered the gun with a sigh. Even his voice filled with it. “Now, you’ll never find her, son. Razor ate that heart of hers. And I am in no position to get it back.”
Korac’s eyes flicked to the weapon. He looked back up at Remorse’s voids. “That won’t hurt me.”
The Tritan raised it once more. “It wasn’t designed for a nacre-bearing Icarus. It’s much older. And it’ll work just fine. Go back inside for your own good. Don’t make me shoot you, son.”
Korac took a step toward the Tritan, testing him.
“This gun will turn you inside out.”
Korac clenched his fists and jaw. He could still hear her screaming. “I have to save her.”
“Consider yourself lucky to have known her. And let her go. Convince Pehton to stop aiming for Razor’s empire. Both of you relax and play nice like the pawns you are. Leave the fighting to the knights and the bishops.”
He scanned the Tritan’s body language for sincerity. Finger on the triggering mechanism. Aim perfectly square at the Icarus’ brain. Breathing steady. With all that in mind, Korac smirked. “That’s not really my style.” He lunged.
The gun went off.