Once Broken, Chapter 31 (Patreon)

The clacking of stone being laid on stone was a distraction. He wanted to get down from the House’s roof and tell Tristan to get it over and done with already. But he was almost done. If Alex was the reason Tristan lost it and tore the wall down yet again, he had no idea what he’d do.

So he looked at the skies and kept his hopes to himself. His hopes that the next time he looked down, Tristan would look back at him, cold and calculating, working out if Alex was worthy of keeping around. Maybe, maybe not. Probably not. The image of Tristan screaming that he hated him kept bouncing in Alex’s head.

All he wanted was for the waiting to be over. He wanted to know his place again, that it be taking orders, or being dead. Either way, he’d be done with this dread that kept pooling at the bottom of his stomach. He would know what Tristan had decided.

He searched the sky, adjusting the binoculars to see as far as possible, trying to get every second of warning. The attack was coming, he could feel it in his bones. Any day now hovers would approach, enough to overwhelm the people in the town. To subdue them, kill them.

And no one here understood that. Their experience of the universe was too narrow to grasp that not everyone thought the way they did. That for some, encountering a superior force wasn’t a deterrent, but a challenge. For a corporation, it just meant they needed to add zeroes to how much they offered the mercs.

The click and clack of the stones paused, then started again, and that break was enough to pull at his attention. The wall was done, and Alex almost jumped down. Finally…no, Tristan was still putting stones down. The alcove. Alex had forgotten the alcove needed to be there, but that would be quick, comparatively. There was even a large, flat stone at Tristan’s feet. He watched, unable to tear his gaze away. This was it. Tristan was going to be cured.

A stone toppled off the alcove and Alex almost cried out, but the rest held. His fingers pressed painfully against the binocular’s casing. He wanted to catch the moment when the flat stone would be put over it, the instant the Defender went in. He wanted to see Tristan lose his fear and doubt.

If he kept watching, all he’d see was something setting Tristan off and destroying the wall again.

Alex put the binoculars to his eyes and looked at the town. The Samalians were going about their business, as if they knew that Tristan being almost done meant nothing.

He saw Jacoby there, walking between buildings. Alex could count on one hand the number of times the man had set foot in the town, but at least that meant he wasn’t here, lying in wait for any excuse to grab Tristan, throw him in the hover, and fly off.

Alex located Sartas, seated outside her home, watching kids run around. Rig’Irik exited, talked to her, and walked away. Alex followed him, trying to tell how he felt, if he’d gotten over the rejection, but the Samalian looked the way he always did among his people: smiling and happy.

He watched a few of the warriors, making repairs on homes, talking, laughing, and doing—nope, he wasn’t watching that.

They were happy. How long would that last?

He went back to looking over the trees. Still nothing, but it was coming. More than three weeks was plenty of time for LeisureTek to gather an army’s worth of mercenaries.

The pure need caused his hands to shake. He wanted to unleash this frustration at waiting through his knives—hear the interrupted screams as life flowed out of bodies. He wanted to smell the blood mixed in with the scent of grass. 

He wanted to kill.

That desire warred with the knowledge that the next time he fought mercenaries there might be too many of them for him to win, that his death might be stolen from Tristan. He wanted to believe Tristan wouldn’t let that happen, but it could only be true if he was back to his old self.

That meant the alcove being finished, the Defender in its place, and them on their way off this planet. Guilt flared, leaving the Samalians to their fate.

He glanced down. Tristan was putting on the last row. He looked away.

The townsfolk weren’t his responsibility; their survival was only a means to an end. Once Tristan was done, he had no use for this place. He would leave and he wouldn’t care. Tristan didn’t care about anything or anyone, so Alex wouldn’t either.

He looked at the town again. The children playing, the ones old enough to sit and listen around one older Samalian, being told what? Stories of heroes of far-gone times? Of Alex and Tristan? No, not them. They weren’t heroes. When this town was destroyed, they’d be forgotten, as it should be.

He tried to look away. There were so many kids, children who hadn’t asked to be involved in this. Who the corporation would ground under the weight of its greed.

They aren’t my responsibility, he reminded himself.

The click-clack of stones stopped. The pause was long enough Alex had to look.

The flat stone was on the alcove. It… It was done. Tristan had finished it. They could leave. Tristan was putting the Defender in place. Alex’s spirits soared. It was over. All the waiting, all the dread. The need. He wouldn’t have to deal with that anymore. Tristan would tell him how to feel, what to do, who to kill.

Yes, finally.

The high-pitched whine forced him to look up.

No, damn it, no. He searched over the trees. They couldn’t attack now, not when he was about to get Tristan back. The whine intensified, but he couldn’t see the approaching hovers. Where were they? Was it his imagination? His fear of finally being done here? No, the sound was real; the binoculars registered it too. But the direction was up?

He pulled the binoculars away and searched the sky above him, and a different kind of dread formed. He located the dot.

No, they couldn’t.

The heat of entry distorted it through the binoculars, but he could tell there was no tail of material burning off. He adjusted the focus. Smooth surface, he could just make out the gravitic generators under it through the heat distortion.

Not a rock, a dropship.

With a curse, he scrambled down the building, skidding and almost losing his footing, jumping the last fifteen feet that were too steep.

A dropship meant professionals. Either a better class of mercs, or corporate security. This was it. This was the fight that would wipe them all out.

He hit the ground, running toward the town. He needed to organize the warriors. He had to hope enough of them were armed. They should have set up weapons caches in the town itself, damn if the kids found them.

Remembering Tristan, Alex slowed. He glanced over his shoulder, expecting his Samalian to be running too, but he stood there, looking down at the alcove. Alex was torn. He was here for Tristan, but the town needed a coordinated defense if it had any chance of surviving.

Tristan could take care of himself, Alex reminded himself. Even while broken, Tristan had demonstrated that, and he wouldn’t be broken anymore, not now that he’d finished his assigned task. Satisfied, he started turning his head, when he saw the heat distortion approaching Tristan.

Alex stopped. Heat distortions didn’t move that way. He put the binocular to his eyes and watched as Tristan fought nothing. No, not nothing. Tristan struck something, and a man shimmered into existence.

Tristan was fighting for his life. 

Alex ran.

He forgot about the town, the dropship. He forgot they were about to die under a wave of trained soldiers. His only thought was that he needed to save Tristan.