"Shut up! That monster is going to kill my brother! My brother is one the elite! He is one of the beautiful people! He is a genius! That disgusting freak should be grateful my brother wanted to experiment on him! He should beg someone like my brother to experiment on him!"

  The white skinned man smiles at the girl. "Be quiet, child."

  The girl does not stop trying to scream, but no sound comes out of her mouth. There was no sign of the white man using any Power, but he still eliminated the girl's ability to make noise. He cannot be someone from Earth.

  With his smile still in place, the white man turns to Pancho. "Mr. Sanchez, I can reunite you with your granddaughter. All you have to do is give me the location of Mark McGuinness."

  The look Pancho gives the white man is about the same look you would give dog shit that you had just stepped in. "You're trying to get me to betray an ally to save Candace. You're one sick piece of work."

  The white skinned man's smile never changes. "Would you prefer to die without ever seeing her again and allow her to die as one of the disposable masses in our war with the Jotuns' heretical minions?"

  Pancho's face goes pale. "Pendejo!"

  A touch of amusement glints in the white skinned man's eyes. "We could always use her as a battalion whore. She was quite the good looking human girl and very healthy. At least, she was before she became a drug addict. She should still be able to handle forty or fifty soldiers a night. The faithful need to be taken care of so they do not fall into the sodomitic tendencies that infest this mud ball."

  Good looking human girl? The way the white skinned man says the words make it seem like he is not human himself. He is not an Alfar, but his odd coloration could be natural to some other race. The question is, what race?

  The white skinned man glances at me for a second. It is almost like he knows what I am thinking, but that is impossible. This Dvergar body leaves me basically immune to Psi.

  Pancho looks sick. He is a man that stands by his allies and commitments and has a strong sense of honor. He sees Brand as an ally of sorts and does not want to sell him out. He is caught between his family and his honor.

  It is more than just ridiculous to think of honor on Earth. This is a world that discarded honor as anything but lip service more than a hundred years ago. Among the elite, pandering to the masses and the psychotic fringe replaced anything that resembled beliefs, integrity, and honor. For the masses, vapidly following and parroting celebrities while trying to scrounge up as many government benefits as possible became a way of life. Only a small fraction of the military retained anything that resembled a code of honor, and for those that did, their faithfulness and integrity were used to destroy them.

  Pancho looks at me with a pained expression. I want to help him, but I feel like no matter what I say it will just make things worse. However he chooses, he is going to blame himself.

  "Tell him, Pancho. If these snake fuckers go after Brand, they'll be going to their own deaths." My words make me feel like I am swallowing poison. Even if Brand kills all these snake worshiping bastards, it will not change the fact that we are selling him out.

  "Fresno, California. It's an Urehara complex on the north side of the city." There is no need to expand on the name Urehara. Anyone that knows what Delphi is knows what the Urehara Group is.

  The white skinned man laughs. "See how easy that was? I will make sure the La Raza soldiers give your granddaughter your regards. She has been a whore for them since she arrived. Drug addicts are not useful for much more."

  "Puta madre chancla!" Pancho spits at the white man, but his spittle stops in mid-air as though it hit an invisible wall and falls to the ground.

  The bastard is worse than those career blood suckers in the government. He put Pancho in a position where however he chose, he would be discarding something he believed in.

  The white skinned man looks at me. "I have been called many things, but you may be the first to insult me by comparing me to an Umbral-spawn like a vampire."

  Even though my jaw does not hit my chest, I feel like it has. Psis are not exactly common in the Battleground of Despair or the Lands of Despair, but we ran into our fair share over the years. Because of this Dvergar body, they were never able to get much from me. How did he pick that thought from my mind so cleanly?

  "Compared to what you think of as Psis, I am a demigod." This time, the white skinned man's laughter is more mocking than before.

  After glancing at one another, Pancho and I stare at the white skinned man. If he can read our minds without our knowing, what was the point of his manipulation games?

  The white skinned man grins at us. "You both chose to give up your friend's location. How does it feel to betray someone? How do you think he will react when I inform him of your treasonous actions? Will he die cursing your names?"

  "Brand will piss on your corpse, pendejo." The cold certainty in Pancho's voice surprises me.

  "Even if he were in perfect condition, your Brand would never defeat me, and his condition is far from perfect. I have it on the word of very reliable spies that he is losing his control over the Trinity. His Power is fluctuating radically. That is a sign of someone on the verge of losing their ability to control Power." The real amusement of the white skinned man's smile is reflected in his eyes.

  *** Southern California – Earth ***

  Return: Day 344

  August 7, 2078

  "Spymaster!" The tone of the Mistress of Santa Rosa Island was sharp.

  The Spymaster composed his face into a bland mask with the exception of a supercilious smile on his lips. Turning around, he stared at the Mistress without saying a word.

  The Mistress made a poor attempt to hide the irritation that she was feeling, leaving her forehead scrunched up and wrinkles visible at the corners of her eyes. "What are you doing questioning those prisoners without my presence?"

  The Spymaster sees the irritation and arrogance in the Mistress' aura, and a flash of contempt appears in his eyes. This ignorant female has no concept of her place. She thinks that being made the manager of other humans on this pathetic world is due to her exceptional worth.

  "They are the companions of Mark McGuinness, the former ward of your brother that you betrayed to the Dread Reaver that was hunting him. I thought you had no further interest in him, his friends, or his affairs." The Spymaster delivered his words with a blatantly mocking tone.

  The Mistress' eyes widened, and she could not seem to decide if she was more shocked or angered. "I am the Commander of this world for the Thirteen Heavens. You are not even a part of the regular staff for this. The prisoners are related to acts that have destabilized the worshipers of the heretics. We do not know what impediments they may cause for our plans. I expect to be kept informed of anything relating to them."

  They Spymaster did not hide the contempt in his eyes. "You are nothing but a treacherous human that betrayed its own blood. You were given your position because you are a coward that would not do anything to upset the balance with the Celestial Court and the heretics. You are arrogant, but you do not have strength of character to go beyond trampling on those already beneath you. Due to your lack of courage to act on your ambitions, you were an ideal middle manager type to keep the pigs of this world in line, but your usefulness is near its end. Do not interfere with me, unless you want to experience life as a slave firsthand."

  The Spymaster turned his back on the Mistress and walked away.

  This human, Brand, could become a problem. From the memories of the prisoners, he is one of those rare beings with the Power to challenge those who are multiple Path of Transcendence higher than himself. I was not present at the time and made assumptions that the Dread Reaver sealing his Power was nothing but the result of a squabble among pigs. Could there be more to it?

  It would be best if the little Dragonian and her pigs dealt with this Brand. The decision to have the hunters use arrows in the style of those Sisters of Penance was a wise decision.

  Too Many Questions

  *** Central California – Earth ***

  Return: Day 345

  August 8, 2078

  (Brand)

  "Clarence is awake." With a contrary smirk on his face, Dacbold is the picture of self-satisfied conceit. He has his chair pushed all the way back against the wall, probably, to help keep it from breaking under his weight, and his feet are crossed on the conference table.

  I raise one eyebrow. "How is he handling being chained up?"

  As he laughs, Dacbold's smirk turns into a mocking grin. "Oh, he's fit to be tied, very bad pun intended. He cannot seem to decide if he wants to be pissed over being a prisoner or happy to be alive without Woden's lackeys controlling his every move. Oh, and he still hates to be called Clarence. I tested it a few times just to be sure."

  I do not know how Special Agent Jones felt dealing with Dacbold, but with Dacbold's self-satisfied smugness, I cannot decide whether or not I should give into the urge to hit my own face with my palm.

  In the end, I resist the urge to smack my head with my palm, and then, I discard the idea of smacking Dacbold in the head. It would not do any good, anyway. I once heard someone say that you have to be careful of the quiet ones. He was talking about me, but I think it applies more to someone like Dacbold. For someone who was so stony during the Great Fuck Over, returning to Earth has turned him into an outright troublemaker.

  I tell Dacbold about Thorrin and Tyrend, and his amusement dissipates.

  "Elan, see if you can locate Tyrend and Thorrin. I'm going to talk to Special Agent Jones."

  Elan's expression turns thoughtful, and she speaks in a soft voice. "I could try, but it would be difficult. I do not know what variety of concealment wards they may be using or how to get around them, and Tyrend has the same ward from that Dvergar monster that we do. It could take days, and I would be unable to work on preparing Delphi for shipping."

  "Keep working on Delphi. Once we bring the Night Raven here, if their captors haven't tipped their hands, it should be easier to search for them. Just make sure that this place is covered as best you can with alarm wards."

  With Dacbold following at my heels, I head for the room where we imprisoned Special Agent Jones.

  "Do you have a problem with Special Agent Jones that I should know about?"

  Dacbold smirks. "Nope. He's just the kind of person that I enjoy taunting."

  "What do you plan to do about Thorrin and Pancho?"

  I sigh. "I'm not sure. If we could figure out where they are, we could break them out. I doubt whoever has them is just going to sit quietly. We'll get our chance to go after them."

  As I open the door, Special Agent Jones is staring at me coldly. The chains on his wrists and ankles give him enough leeway to sit up but not stand. His eyes are filled with the same hostility and animosity as the first time I met him. Despite being at the end of a five foot length of steel rod driven through the concrete floor into the ground beneath, the eyebolt for the chain attached to his right wrist appears to have already been loosened.

  Special Agent Jones displays his chained wrists. "Mr. McGuinness, would you care to explain this?"

  I give Special Agent Jones a faint smile that does not reach my eyes. "My sword pierced your heart. You died, but before I had a chance to leave the cemetery, you revived."

  Special Agent Jones laughs morbidly. "So those motherfuckers won't even let me die. That's really some fucking bullshit."

  "I could have permanently ended your life. It would not have been that difficult, but for reasons that I do not understand myself, I do not want to kill you."

  Long minutes drag out, while we stare into each other's eyes. Finally, Special Agent Jones releases the breath of air in what could be a soft sigh and looks at the ground. I do not know what he was looking for in my eyes, and I do not know if he found it.

  "Where do we go from here, Mr. McGuinness?"

  I shrug. "I'm not exactly sure. As long as you stay inside the bounds of those four sticks floating around you, it is fairly certain that Woden's bitch boys will not be able to find you. The collar on your neck is a slave collar. Because of how it is designed, it might, or it might not, block any Power-based control methods they are using on you. If you choose, you can leave Earth with us. There are people on Taereun with the knowledge to permanently disable the controls built into that plate in your skull. Whether or not they will do it in what they would demand in compensation, I don't know. It's your choice what you want to do, but I've already set up the commands in Delphi to launch the world's nuclear arsenals in just over a week."

  For a moment, Special Agent Jones looks at me with an unreadable expression. "You've stopped using double entendre."

  "I've changed."

  Special Agent Jones gives me an odd look, but after a moment, his normal, neutrally hostile expression returns. "Yeah. You've changed."

  Special Agent Jones stares into my eyes for a few more moments, before nodding. "Where are the American nukes that you set up for Delphi to launch?"

  "Cheyenne Mountain. Why?"

  Special Agent Jones laughs. "That's a red herring. There are no missiles there. There never have been. After the supposed nuclear disarmament, the government built a fake launch facility in Cheyenne Mountain. On paper, everything looks real, but the real missiles were taken completely off the grid."

  I look over my shoulder at Dacbold, and he shrugs. "Sounds like exactly what good old Uncle Fucker would do."

  I look back at Special Agent Jones. "Fuck me sideways. Do you know where the real missiles are?"

  "I'd say thanks for the offer but I didn't think you were a faggot. Besides, I don't fuck Faggots, I just kill them and write it up as killing subversives. The perks of being a government agent." Special Agent Jones smirks.

  "Ha fucking ha. What about the missiles?"

  Special Agent Jones' expression turns serious. "The biggest cluster of launch tubes is in Black Hills National Park. It's a little bit south of Mount Rushmore."

  As I try to remember where I heard the name Mount Rushmore, I frown. "I know the Black Hills are in South Dakota, but what is Mount Rushmore."

  With a somewhat shocked expression, Special Agent Jones looks past me toward Dacbold.

  Dacbold shrugs. "He's only twenty-something."

  Special Agent Jones' face flushes from anger. "Those libtard tools of the god fuckers really fucked over my country. The America I fought and killed for is dead. It's time we bury it.

  "Mount Rushmore is a monument with the faces of four US presidents carved in the 1920s. The problem for these libtards is that two of them are Washington and Jefferson. They were two of our nation's Founding Fathers, but these pieces of shit in control of our country vilify them as evil slave owners."

  Taking out my tablet computer, I access Delphi and try to bring up information on the Black Hills launch facility, but there is nothing.

  "I can't find anything about that launch facility with Delphi."

  Special Agent Jones scoffs. "I told you that it's off the grid. I think those god fuckers have done something to keep Delphi out. The same as they did in Area 51."

  I frown. "Do you know the layout? How many people are there? What the security setup is?"

  Special Agent Jones nods. "I've been to the launch facility. Since they brought me back, that Sandor fuck has been dragging me around with him, and he went there to meet with someone named Graham. They were installing some kind of weird metal and crystal things. I have no idea what they were meant to do."

  "Could that be the same Graham from the Postmen? I thought you killed him?"

  I look at Dacbold still standing in the door to the room. "Since Sandor is apparently still alive, and there are two of him now, I'm Guessing that however they kept Sandor alive, they did the same thing with Graham and the faggot."

  Dacbold grimaces. "I really want to know what is going on inside of the Burning Medical Research Hospital."

  "We'll find out. Once Valcrit finishes with Turner, I plan to go back through the rift and get the Night Raven. We can dig around and destroy the hospital on our way through."

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Special Agent Jones grinning. As I turn back to him, he locks his eyes with my own in a hard stare.

  "I want in on it when you trash that place."

  With that metal plate making up the side of his skull, the man is a walking bomb, and there is no telling if the enemy can turn him against us or not.

  "Do you understand that with just the collar on, I cannot guarantee that they will not be able to take over your mind again?"

  Special Agent Jones sighs. "I'm a lot older than you, Mr. McGuinness. I fought in wars. I was an assassin for my government. If I haven't learned anything else, I've learned that there is nothing truly certain or truly safe. I am not one of the sheep that thinks I'm living in some perfect utopian socialist society. If you want to be a real man and not a faggot sheep living off the government teat, you make your choices, and you live or die by the consequences. If they take over my mind again, kill me and make sure you do it right. It will be a better fate than what they have in store for me."

  "You're vocabulary has improved. Special Agent Jones would have probably been pleased."

  Special Agent Jones laughs. "Yeah, he was always nagging me about my vocabulary. It was worse than being married."

  "I'll bring you with us. With that collar around your neck, if you turn against us, I can kill you with a single thought."

  Special Agent Jones nods. "I would not expect anything else."

  "What about that missiles facility? What is the security like?"

  Special Agent Jones scoffs. "The human security is a joke. Just like everything else in this country, the military is gone to shit. But there are other things there. Those black and grey freaks that you killed in Area 51, there are more of them there. They call them droger or something like that."

  "Draugr, they're a kind of undead."

  "Undead? You mean like zombies, the living dead?"

  One corner of my mouth twitches upward. "No, zombies are almost as dumb as your average American sheep. Draugr are intelligent, and they're as tough as a tree trunk."

 

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