Page 46

The Labs

Within the sprawling confines of the Labs, Fenrir found himself thinking about how the first thing he’d do when he got Orpheus back was bring him here.

For all the technology the world had lost, the Labs were evidence of a time when humanity had been on the brink of a scientific awakening. An awakening that had inevitably happened under the quiet purview of the Labs’ artificial intelligence. Bastion would tell anyone that he was no more than a motherboard with a robotic arm before he’d eventually assembled his own humanoid body—an AI that had been given an unexpected free-reign of their own development. A development he’d decided to shape into a mimicry of the masters who had left him behind. A mimicry Orpheus had chased, when he’d built his archanics from Netherflame instead of bodies.

Orpheus would love it here. Fenrir was sure of it. All he had to do was get him back, then bring him himself. And he would, as soon as Bastion gave him his all clear.

“Your wound is healing nicely if I do say so myself. We are all very pleased you’re making a recovery.”

Fenrir lay propped up on an operatory table, stump unwrapped for the first time since he’d woken. The skin was angry and red, painful to the touch though Bastion assured him there was no infection. Of all the battles he’d fought in, he’d faced down death often enough, but this was the first time he’d walked away with a life-altering wound. Not even Orpheus’ disastrous spell to summon Ohm had caused this much damage. A sexy scar to his face was an acceptable price to pay for his life—but his sword arm?

No, no. It was fine. He didn’t need it. Sure, two arms were better than one, but even one of his arms was better than about five of an average man’s; he was still playing with an advantage. Even if he was going to need every advantage he could get to rescue Orpheus.

“I tried to salvage enough arm to reattach it, but the damage is extensive. Fascinating, really. Unlike anything I’ve seen. I’ve spent the last week studying the decay and curiously, while necrosis is present, the arm remains responsive. I suspect a poison may be involved, but our dear guest has not been the most forthcoming.”

Under the glass case, an edge of frost crusted the fingertips, limb frozen in some kind of deep stasis that reminded Fenrir of those doors in the basement. Where flesh had once been warm with life, decay mottled the skin where the elf’s blade had cut in, rot spreading like a stain up his bicep to where Bastion had surgically removed the limb from the rest of his arm.

“I bet it’s a Netherflame derivative, but Orpheus will know for sure, you can show him after I get him back.”

“Netherflame? That is quite possible. It is a…shame I never got to meet our dear missing sorcerer. I’d have loved to study how his body was able to withstand Netherflame’s effects.”

Fenrir swallowed, unable to think about Orpheus under another scientist’s microscope, or whether that might be what was happening to him right now. He knew the limits desperate people would go to survive—or rather, the lack of limits dire situations called for. Orpheus had already lived through that once; he didn’t deserve to be subjected to it all over again. Not after everything he’d given up to save the world.

But Fenrir would have him home, soon enough. He’d been out of the wheelchair since that morning, off the cocktail of painkillers since the day before. Riding Nightmare may present a learning curve with his new balance, but he’d adapt as he always did. As he always had to. Needed to.

I’m coming for you, Fifi. Just hold on a little longer.

“So, doc, do I have your all clear for a rescue mission—”

“—Uhg, is that what I think it is?” The lab room door whooshed on near silent hinges, Red appearing for the first time all day. “All hells, it is!”

Fenrir grinned. “What, never seen a zombified arm before?”

“You’re not gonna try to reattach it, are you?”

And risk Orpheus never looking at him the same way again? “No, you don’t have to worry about that, Red.”

“But,” Bastion added, “it’s not entirely out of the realm of possibility. I’ve a design already drafted to salvage what healthy arm remains and—”

“—Don’t worry about it, Bastion. I don’t need a replacement arm. Still got one” —Fenrir raised his remaining left hand— “left.”

Bastion and Red both stared, silence stretching.

“Get it? One left? My left arm is—”

Finally, Red’s lip curled. “Can we knock him out again? I think the infection reached his brain.”

Bastion appeared thoughtful. “I don’t recommend another bout of anesthesia so soon, however if we must—”

“—Wow, yeah, no one is knocking me out again.” Fenrir met Red’s eyes. “You’re in a mood today, interrogation not going well?”

“Her name is Daedra,” Red snapped. “She seems to enjoy pain.”

Fenrir laughed, a sharp bark that made Red glower. “Well, that’s almost as helpful as what Bastion got out of her.”

“I find uncovering a person’s favorite color to be of immeasurable value,” Bastion said, standing tall. “It’s red, if you cared to know.”

“Wow, you two are truly the gold standard of interrogators, aren’t you?” Red stared up at Fenrir apathetically. “That certainly helps piece things together, doesn’t it?”