“What is it that you do, Scipio?” asked William, resting his right hand on his hip, just above the second pair of knees bent backward.
Even through the layer of clothing, his rough hide produced a deep boom at the touch of his limbs. The back of the plastic chair, already broken, slid further backward, threatening to drop its occupant. Owing to the difference in height, Father had been given a separate bead microphone, and he carefully held it near his mouth with two fingers.
“I am an orator of the Defenders movement. The aim of our movement is to ensure the safety of all citizens of Iterna, and I make my own modest contribution by elucidating potential threats as well as the values of our party.” Scipio smiled, tilting his head up.
“In that case, your methods do not inspire optimism in me. You dwell on the danger of the Malformed, but does the same not apply to every one of us? In my homeland, altered infants were left to die under the scorching sun; should I therefore harbor distrust toward every Normie?” inquired William.
“Regrettable prejudices are widespread beyond the borders,” Scipio agreed. “But we live in Iterna, not somewhere else. The Defenders’ arguments concern only this country. We are troubled by the potential danger posed by a non-integrated population accustomed to consuming human flesh.”
“Prejudices, hmm... Your political stance sows the seeds of prejudice within the population. Or did you miss the reaction of your supporters directed at my son?”
“We immediately removed from the demonstration the radical not sharing our views. Misunderstandings are entirely natural for any political movement. Harsh words are not as dangerous as actions.”
Dad smiled. Despite himself, Drax straightened up, holding his arms at his sides. He knew that expression; it appeared every time an opponent in an argument had backed themselves into a trap. It was followed by a merciless pummeling with facts and rubbing the children’s noses in their obvious mistakes until they themselves admitted they were wrong.
Scipio had made a mistake. But the young man did not yet understand exactly which one. A bite and an insult were not equal.
“Three days ago, I read about a tragic incident on the highway. A drunk driver lost control and crashed into a family emerging from a roadside shop,” William lowered his voice. “Should I now be wary of all drivers?”
“You are generalizing,” Scipio protested.
“And you are not?” William interrupted. “You indirectly reproached my son for posing a danger. Let us examine your prejudice. Drax got into trouble on his way to school. An automated turret targeted him after the security guard mistook him for a beast. Can you imagine that?”
“Dad!” shouted an embarrassed Drax. His pitch-black skin took on a greenish tint.
“Quiet, you already missed your chance.” William waved him off with a large hand. “So, the social worker Horatia rescued my boy from humiliation, and the subsequent conversation resolved the misunderstandings. But who can guarantee that the fears you spread did not serve as the very seed from which this unpleasant situation grew?”
“The Defenders clearly articulate their position on this matter,” Scipio replied imperturbably. “We do not call for a violent resolution to the question of coexistence with the Malformed and sever ties with any supporters acting otherwise.”
“But would they have acted otherwise without words that cast doubt on their minds?” William shrugged. “Let us consider your assertion: harsh words are not as dangerous as actions. I confess, I became a citizen not so long ago, but while studying history, I took note of a sorrowful event whose shadow stretches to this very day.”
“Comparing us to the maniacs of the Democratic Party is inappropriate and insulting,” Scipio retorted immediately.
“Is it?” William marveled. “The deposed president also used harsh words, clearly delineating boundaries. Afterward, she moved on to actions, still adhering to her previous slogans, and deceived many.”
Angry shouts rose from the crowd. Several people tried to force their way toward the speakers, yelling furiously at the serenely seated father. They were stopped by Reiko’s supporters, and the dark-skinned man himself stood like a wall, not letting a red-faced protester push forward. The mounting angry buzz agitated Drax. Everyone around was offended not by Dad’s presence, otherwise the anger would have spilled onto him as well, but by the hint he had dropped: he had caused the assembled an almost tangible pain.
An empty tin bottle flew up, but a large woman’s palm caught it and instantly crumpled it. A gust of icy wind swept through the crowd, cooling hot heads, and the murmuring people calmed somewhat. Pierre waved to Drax, beckoning him over. Around the mutant wearing the cowboy hat swirled streams of lazily moving air that had become visible to the eye. Nakula and his people formed a cordon at the tribune.
Father had deliberately stirred up the crowd.
“I understand how it might have seemed to you that the Defenders’ speeches lead to a negative effect,” Scipio said sourly, glancing at the demonstrators.
“Come now, don’t sell yourself so cheaply. Perhaps I crossed a line.” William’s smile did not fade. “The actions of your supporters give me confidence in a better outcome. But as you could see, mood swings happen to everyone. It’s only human.”
“Between the harm caused by a thrown bottle and a bite that causes tissue necrosis, there lies an enormous difference,” the orator objected.
“Mr. Scipio, I work at the docks. You know, physical labor involving the unloading and loading of arriving foreign ships. Well, many workers use loaders for tasks my hands can handle. Without machines, there lies, as you put it, an enormous gulf between us. That does not prevent me from perceiving them as equals.” William raised an arm, signaling he was not finished. “You mentioned the temporary difficulty our people have with language. Technology eliminates that gap, making us equal not only in worldview but physically as well.”
“There remains the problem of not accepting our values and perceiving humans as food. The Malformed are distanced from other peoples on a fundamental level. The difference begins at birth itself: their union with a human leads to violent childbirth, threatening physical trauma to the mother.” Scipio steepled his fingers under his chin. “Given such distance, starting from the earliest age, growing up in an environment that considers sentient beings as lawful game, and, yes, the warlike confrontations with neighbors, can we consider ourselves safe in accepting you into our society so soon?”
“I don’t know, ask my son,” William laughed. “When he saw the Marva girls in trouble, he rushed to their aid. I myself was shortened by half, clumsily covering their retreat.”
“You were taller?!” a stunned voice shouted from the crowd.
“No, my halves were glued back together.” William’s answer defused the atmosphere, drawing chuckles. “On the ship, the children of both peoples played together. My son does charity work and is considered one of the best at the gym...”
“Enough already!” Drax shouted. The skin visible in the gaps between his bony growths took on a greenish hue. About the last part of the praise, he had brazenly lied to his father, greatly exaggerating his successes in training.
“My children have found friends among the Normies. My wife has integrated excellently, and I hope I am not lagging too far behind them.” William rose and stood facing the crowd, illuminated by the floodlights. “I will not lie to you. The greater part of my tribe is kept in the camp for the common good. Our past is ugly. We must learn and unlearn so much in order to become part of Iterna in deed, not just in word. But fate has arranged that we are already here, and I ask you to judge us the same as any citizen. No more and no less. Punish the guilty and accept the innocent as equals. For that is the value of our country.”
A clap rang out. Pierre was clapping next to Drax, ignoring Nakula’s look. A second later, Raghunath joined him, and first a dozen, then three dozen people applauded at the end of Father’s speech. It was but a drop in the sea compared to the mass of protesters gathered that night, yet Scipio’s followers’ absolute confidence in the Defenders’ convictions had cracked.
For now a small crack, but who could say what would follow?
The greenish tint disappeared from Drax’s skin as he re-examined what had happened. Why had he gotten so upset? He remained himself; his resolve not to maim the innocent had not gone anywhere, and he was not ashamed of his past deeds. Yes, another Malformed had bitten a person. So what? If he had been nearby, he would have stopped him. But he had not been there; he was not guilty, and the guilty one was already in custody.
Enough of taking others’ blame upon himself.
William exchanged mutual courtesies, bade farewell to Scipio, and walked past Reiko tapping on his thigh, then joined Drax, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder and peering into his face. There was not a gram of weariness in Dad’s smile; his eyes radiated warmth and confidence. He shook hands with Pierre, and together they walked across the square toward the car.
“Nakula won’t mind?” asked William.
“He offered to give you a ride home,” Pierre replied. “To avoid trouble.”
His car did not resemble the elegant local transport. Rough-looking, with scratches on its sides, it stood on wheels. The heavy front end clearly belonged to an armored vehicle, but somewhere at about a third of its length it transitioned into the stub of a passenger car. At the press of a button on the key fob, a hum arose, and the tires lifted off the asphalt, turning forty-five degrees so that the disks faced the road. With slight apprehension, Drax scrambled onto the back seat, into the car’s interior, which was steeped in the smell of cheap cigarettes. Before he could blink, a pensive Horatia appeared beside him, having thrown a brief greeting to the men and not uttering another word.
This suited William. The roof above the front seat was high enough for him to squeeze inside without bending. Near the steering wheel, Drax noticed a photograph of the Normie woman possessing the ability to turn into lightning: she was embracing Pierre against the backdrop of a dune studded with stones.
“Planning on throwing my children out?” he asked directly.
“Only those posing a threat,” Pierre answered, starting the car. His face hardened, the mutant’s features emerging. He twitched, relaxing. Instead of a radio, a terminal had been built into the battered dashboard. At the press of a button, it caught a music station.
“Where to draw that line.” William sighed.
The horizon behind them presented the tall peaks of the business district’s skyscrapers. Even at night, their illumination did not cease, and pillars of light rose high, coloring a part of the night sky into a silvery stain. A little to the right and much farther away loomed a titanic skyscraper with a golden serpent coiling around it. The yellow glow of that sculpture shone faintly, highlighted against the dark building. Ahead lay the highway leading out of Baal. Like the dark gullet of a monster, the night beyond the city gradually expanded as they moved south. In the suburbs were scattered farms and many parks, interspersed with complexes deemed too dangerous to be located within the city limits.
Drax wanted to talk to his father about Gaur but was not sure it was wise to raise the subject in front of Pierre or Horatia. Given even the slightest chance of the guard’s reformation, it would be unwise to ruin his future.
“You didn’t tell Scipio that you’re not like me,” he voiced the next thought that was troubling him.
“I am the same as you. I am your father. And you are my son,” William stated this as a fact.
“That’s not what I meant. You didn’t mention that you’re a mutant.”
“A debate is the same as a duel, only usually with less violence. The goal is to achieve victory. There’s no need to give the opponent an advantage. Our armament was better, which limited the potential arguments of the opposing side.”
“You put Scipio before a choice: walk on eggshells or oust himself a racist,” Pierre chuckled.
“Nevertheless, he handled it decently. Who’s that rat?” asked William.
“Reiko Vat Grahl. Former big army shot. Rose to major and worked in the intelligence bureau. The ancestors only know what he did there and what his actual rank is, but, judging by his character, sabotage and extraction of valuable technology. Like a more muscular version of the explorators. He even has a hero’s star. During the uprising, his squad blew up the gates of a concentration camp, leading out the imprisoned mutants. About forty years ago, something happened, and he ended up a civilian in disgrace,” Pierre replied. “Opened a chain of gyms, which completely accidentally became a gathering place for his chicks and bulls. Hangs around the Defenders, keeping order at events. Scipio thinks he can flip him over to our side, but I suspect he holds too high an opinion of that fellow. Reiko is surely into recruiting.”
“Tell Nakula not to take risks: not to go out alone, not to dismiss his security...”
“You take the boss for a fool?”
“His children were once stolen,” William replied impassively.
“Rudrani, Satya, and the others are in danger?” Drax grabbed at Dad’s seat.
“Don’t worry ahead of time. Perhaps it’s just paranoia speaking in me.”
“Okay, honestly. Nakula doesn’t trust this weasel. He’s always with professionals, and the girls are escorted. If a fight breaks out, we’re not defenseless,” Pierre said.
“Who even are these Defenders, and what do they have against us? And why are you with them?” asked Drax.
“A political party, without corporate sponsoring. That attracts a certain amount of attention from sympathetic people believing the government doesn’t keep the promises it makes. And why we’re with them...” Pierre paused. “Pardner, you saw what happened to Rudrani.”
“Yeah,” Drax said quietly.
“Plus, Nakula plans to use them as a springboard to enter the political arena.”
“A young, energetic leader who has the support of his tribe and shares the concerns of the native population,” William grunted. “Let a feeder into a barn full of lizards... Never mind. Son, I wanted to talk about...”
Horatia tensed, sitting up straight and removing her arms from behind her head. Instead of music, the terminal started emitting static, and Pierre poked at the buttons, unable to eliminate the monotonous noise. Several cars ahead pulled onto the shoulder, and a couple of drivers climbed out, looking around in bewilderment. Drax followed them with his gaze, noticing how the outside displays of a sports bar became hazy, interrupting the match broadcast.
Their car jerked, and Horatia grabbed Drax by the shoulder, holding him in place, and kicked the back of William’s seat, straightening the man before he could smash his face against the windshield during the stop. The car tilted, falling onto its side, and Drax found himself above the social worker, holding up his weight with her trembling arm. To ease her task, he took hold of Pierre’s seat as the man rubbed his eyes after colliding with the steering wheel.
“Who and how?”
“Enough tyranny!” Fire splashed onto the road, and shouts rang out. People were running to the left of them, hiding in the alleys near the sports hall. The cars around them accelerated, fleeing the scene. “No more forced acceptance of power-suppressing medicine! Freedom! What is natural cannot be unlawful, and we will not tolerate crimes against us!”
“That answers the question. Hey, Willie! I’m going to castrate the bastards. You in?” Pierre growled. He pulled a revolver from the glove compartment and slung a cartridge belt around his waist.
“Wouldn’t miss it for anything. No killing,” Father warned. “Draa... Drax, get to safety, or I’ll spank you. Horatia...”
“Don’t even count on it.”
The roof opened, and both men climbed out. Dark storm currents were already gathering around Pierre, and the chill of the nascent rain blew inside. Horatia leaped out after them, abandoning her charge, and he clumsily tumbled down, tearing off part of the seat. We’ll write it off to the accident; Pierre doesn’t need to know. The thought flashed through his head. Drax took out his own terminal and dialed the four-digit emergency number.
Nothing. There was no Net connection.
Clambering outside, he beheld the chaos reigning on the road in its entirety. On the opposite side of the street stood a gambling club with a facade recessed several meters. The cloth-upholstered doors had caught fire; through the stained-glass windows, agitated patrons could be seen, and to the left of the building, an overturned police van blocked the alley. Another police car lay on the main road, heavily dented and with a footprint on its bumper. The police had spread out to the left and right of the van, taken cover behind lampposts, and were firing into the alley. From inside the blocked passage came the weak discharges of stun guns. An officer with blood streaming down his forehead and a dangling arm was trying to organize the evacuation of civilians.
On the van stood an Abnormal, laughing loudly. In a green sleeveless t-shirt and khaki pants, with a werewolf mask covering his face, he held burning cocktails in his hands. The glass cracked in his clenched fists, and the Abnormal generously splashed the mixture onto the road, frightening off people and catching a policeman. The attacker’s height easily made the police look like children next to him.
Around Werewolf gathered figures wrapped in shapeless dark sweaters, with pulled-up hoods and scarves covering their faces. The fire cast reflections on the white and dark faces visible through the gaps. A stun-gun discharge struck one in the arm, and he swore, dropping the heavy rifle that dangled from a sling across his chest. Drawing a pistol from its holster, the criminal fired toward the policeman, forcing him to hide behind a dumpster.
There were many attackers, no fewer than two dozen. They brazenly, fearlessly, spread out in front of the van, suppressing resistance with numbers and firepower.
Without hesitation, Drax rushed toward them, skirting the flames on the left side. Father charged straight ahead, tearing through the fiery curtain with his speed. With two pairs of knees working in superb synchronization, covered in hardened hide as if in armor, he held an arm before his face, protecting his eyes. Bullets ricocheted off him, and he instantly stopped above a gasping unknown figure in dark clothes standing next to a car flipped onto its roof.
There were no jokes. No warnings either. A swing of his arm swept the woman off her feet, slamming her into the club’s wall with such force that the cracking of bones sounded through the gunfire. William flipped the car over, slapping its bumper, and the driver inside sped away from the shootout. A child’s face pressed against the rear window but immediately pulled back.
“Abnormal?” thundered Werewolf. Bullets and stun-gun discharges struck him without causing discomfort. “Join us, brother! We’ll cast off the shackles of humiliation...”
“I’d rather cast you off.” William jumped over the stream of fire spilled in his direction.
Werewolf drew his arm back, meeting William’s thrust with his own fist. Two fists met, and the human hand came apart. It did not break, did not crumple; it seemed to come apart at the seams, opening a path for rings of muscle that burst outward and entwined the opponent’s limb. They looked purple and pulsating, no less than fifty centimeters in girth. A similar transformation occurred with Werewolf’s left leg, and the elastic, sturdy tendrils burst through his pants, suctioning onto William’s leg. The mutant was lifted above the van.
“Say ‘Ahh,’” Werewolf laughed. Amid the moving tissue, which until recently had been a shoulder, a cocktail bottle with a burning rag stuffed into it emerged.
Werewolf took it with his normal hand, shattered it, and splashed the contents into William’s face. Father did not even flinch. He opened his mouth wide, caught most of the fire, and spat it back onto Werewolf’s mask. The Abnormal swore; his short brown locks ignited, and that distraction was enough for Father. He lunged forward, bit the opponent in the chest, and together they crashed down.
A gust of wind swept across the road, driving the fire aside and upward, and dispersing it without harm to the buildings. Drax stopped beside a burning officer, knocked the man down, and began rolling him, beating the flames off his clothing.
“Whose side are you on?” the policeman rasped. “With the Shadows? Intelligence?”
“A schoolkid, sir!” Drax showed a thumbs-up.
“Get to safety, kid!” the man commanded. His cap had flown off during the shootout, and the entire right side of his face was covered in blisters. But he grabbed the Malformed by the arm. “Don’t risk it! If the prisoners break out...”
A cracking of stone resounded above the van. A thin female figure rose into the air, holding her splayed hands at waist level. She was tightly clad in a silvery garment that hid her hair beneath a cap. Long strips of fabric, longer than her legs, hung from her belt; they swayed, ignoring the wind. Her mouth and eyes were three dark voids, with not the slightest hint of anything behind them.
She let out a musical, mocking note, drawing the attention of Pierre, busy sweeping away three bandits with his power. The man raised an eyebrow and spat. Slim fingers pointed at him. As if in answer, the storefronts on both sides of the street tore off their facades and flew at full speed at the frozen Pierre, grasping the brim of his wide hat with two fingers.
A tornado of dust and clouds whirled up around the former caravan man, shredding the projectiles with a loud crack. Six shots pierced the swirling destruction, striking Singer’s knees, rib, elbow, and both eyes. She arched backward; Drax expected to see blood and a falling corpse, but the woman straightened elegantly, and crushed bullets fell from her face. The oval of her mouth twisted.
A mask.
“I hate armor. Won’t skimp on armor-piercing rounds anymore,” came from the depths of the tornado.
Singer let out a deeper, piercing sound, pulling her arm back. The club’s wall trembled, stones falling as it was destroyed by a steel beam that shot forward. This kind of spear pierced the center of the tornado, flying past Pierre as he leaped aside. The man swore, soared upward on a stream of wind created by his own power, fleeing from the end of the steel beam that stretched toward him. The metal moved like putty, and under Singer’s fingers curled into a circle, rolling after the opponent as he was gaining altitude.
Horatia evidently shared the same opinion as her charge. Where he had clumsily extinguished one policeman, the whirlwind of her white hair appeared beside the wounded, dragging them aside. She intercepted two pistols from the police and put four bullets into the chest of a black-clad criminal who was aiming at an officer carrying a civilian to safety. He slammed into the van and took a step with a groan, clearly not intending to bleed out. Through the holes in his sweater, body armor flashed. Adjusting her aim, she fired twice more, and the criminal screamed piercingly, falling and clutching his ruined knees.
Not the slightest hesitation. Horatia was ready to kill a person.
A burst of automatic fire flew past the woman, grazing her thigh and arm. Horatia dove behind a dumpster, lay on her back, letting the shots that had pierced her cover pass where her head should have been, rolled, and came upon two more terrorists. She jumped up, closing the distance to the van, and found herself in the brief shadow cast by a closed little shop.
A crimson line stretched from Horatia’s ribs across the three steps she had managed to take. The woman turned around, hissing hoarsely from the deep cut that had reached her bone. In the darkness stood a pale girl, dressed only in a short strip of fabric around her chest and shorts. Numerous scars crossed her skin, which had taken on a bluish tint from the lack of the slightest care. Her arms ended in wrists to which mechanical claws with rounded blades were attached. Chains and wires from the weapons snaked up her arms to her elbows, entering under the skin there. The stranger’s greasy, tangled locks flopped with her movements. Her nose was missing; scars stretched from the corners of her mouth to her ears, forming a permanent smile.
Drax named her Cutter.
The attacker swung, and a discharge of electricity struck Horatia in the back, leaving no chance to dodge.
Drax tore from his spot, slammed his fist through the storefront, and missed the dodging Cutter. He rained a hail of straight jabs onto the girl’s face. She dodged half of them, and received the other half. Bruises swelled on her face, and she staggered. But she did not fall. Cutter turned out to be tougher than she looked. Catching her off balance, Drax swung his right, intending to break her arm.
Cutter took a step onto the roadway, caught the firelight, and vanished. The fist passed through empty space, meeting no resistance. Without thinking about it, without thinking about anything but saving lives and ending the chaos as soon as possible, Drax grabbed Horatia by the scruff.
“Drax, no,” she whispered, catching where he was looking.
A policeman had clubbed a wind-swept bandit unconscious with his baton and was already pulling out handcuffs.
“Drax, yes.” He threw the wounded woman toward the ally. Not gently, but he had little choice.
Sharp pain in his lower back drove him to his knees. Cutter was behind him, having crept up silently. The blades of her left gauntlet clicked, shaking off blood. His blood. Drax turned with difficulty, limping on his leg and hunching. Damn. The fascia was damaged. The wretch had nearly immobilized me! Cutter ducked under his swing and pricked her blade into the bony joint of his armpit. A backward elbow thrust hit nothing.
Darkness, shadows, she is using the darkness somehow. Drax spread his arms. The left one trembled. He clapped in front of him, catching Cutter’s manifesting outlines. The collision knocked the girl off her feet and hurled her through the storefront glass across the entire length of the shop. She landed in a narrow strip of light beside the register and disappeared.
Drax took a step forward, intending to enter the darkness, where Cutter could not vanish so freely. His leg jerked backward. Stunned, he tried to turn his head to the right. It moved to the left. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure in a brown robe, with a hood tied under the chin.
She was standing in front of the van; her face was hidden by a painted mask of a hare with no ears. From inside the transport came rhythmic sounds, as if someone was pounding on metal, while another black-clad bandit bent over, cutting through the metal wall with a cutter.
The unknown wretch had done something to him. Her gloved hand was pointing at him. The boy spun, trying to fall onto all fours, and crashed face down. Nothing obeyed as he wanted. From the darkness of the little shop came a bubbling laugh. Drax strained to get up, but his body seemed to press itself deliberately into the pavement, breaking it. An armed bandit moved toward him, readying a shotgun.
In desperation, he began to thrash. A finger curled upward. Drax focused on that, trying to understand what he had done. There was no pressure on him; the finger rose freely. A couple of days ago, Axel had invited him to a video game about airplanes, and there he had learned about a disgusting thing called inverted controls: pulling up on the joystick sent the nose of the plane down, left became right. He had admitted defeat then, refusing to figure out such nonsense.
Drax tried to dive into the pavement. Slowly, against his will and aching fiercely from the cut, his torso lifted, and he stared into the aimed barrel of the shotgun.
“No!” shouted Inverted Control. “Please, don’t...”
What “don’t” she meant, Drax did not hear. He leaned back, moved forward, and touched the barrel with his bony helmet. A shot thundered, throwing him backward by inertia. His head shook, his eyes spun wildly. Now he knew what Tigrin had felt receiving a gunshot wound. The smell of smoke filled his nostrils; his teeth bit his tongue, his neck hurt, and tears flowed. But he had survived. Moving his arm, he found that the induced hex no longer controlled his coordination.
Drax returned what he had received. With full might, he headbutted the bastard’s shoulder, driving the pellets lodged in his bony helmet into his flesh and crushing everything in his path. The man did not even have time to scream before his right arm stopped working; his ribs shattered, piercing his lung, and his leg buckled. Drax was rising, lashing out into the darkness. He sensed the approach, and his fist caught the scarred armpit, twisting Cutter’s arm and tossing her toward the ceiling with enough force for her to crash through to the second floor.
Saliva spilled from his open maw. The man on the ground was choking, gasping for every breath, and Drax did not care. Through the pain, he stepped toward Inverted Control, reveling in the terror emanating from her scent. A wet tongue ran over his teeth; the veins in his eyes bulged, and power spheres appeared on his hands. He wanted to feed. He needed sweet meat! Sustenance!
His opponents were not people. Not of his herd. Before him was prey.
Time to hunt.