The Forgotten Prince Read online

  “That’s the thing, they should never have been there. Being on that side of the factory was never part of the plan. He took a big risk attacking that transport, and, honestly, I’m surprised any of you got off that factory alive. It took weeks of asking before Wendy would let him go, not to mention the amount of planning that went into the operation. Now,” Tim shrugged, “we’ll probably never go back.”

  John sat back and crossed his arms. It didn’t seem all that complicated to him; get up there, open the damn portal, and go home; simple as that. He couldn’t decide if they were just being overly pessimistic or if they just didn’t have the ambition to try. In either case, John knew he was going to get home, no matter how difficult they claimed it was.

  Tim must have read his expression. He leaned forward, forearms on the table, hands clasps together, and said, “Look, a lot of things went wrong when Maggs went through. Bad things. After what happened to Pan, well, from then on, Wendy refused to let anyone else try. Hell, she’s physically stopped a few people from trying. I don’t know what you’d call it. Survivor’s guilt maybe. I don’t know. But up until a few days ago, the Refinery has been strictly off limits.”

  “So, why the change? If she’s been so against it for as long as you say, why change her mind now?”

  “Because of Hook.”

  John raised his eyebrows and opened his hands, expecting him to elaborate.

  Tim rubbed his nose again. “No one really knows what his end game is, but all of the information we’ve gathered in the last few weeks tells us that whatever it is, he’s getting close. Whatever they are, Wendy’s only goal is to make sure he doesn’t succeed.”

  Bella put a hand on the table and whispered, “Hey.”

  Both men glanced at her, then followed her gaze to Marb and his barrel-chested sidekick walking to the serving line. John’s body temperature rose at the sight of the two men. Marb gazed over the people sitting and eating as he took a plate, found John, and stopped short.

  Oak, obviously oblivious to the fact that his friend had stopped, walked right into him. Marb stutter-stepped forward and muttered a curse that John couldn’t hear. A few people glanced toward the commotion and seemed to pick up on the tension in the room.

  “Come on,” Bella said, “I can’t stand eating in a place filled with shit.”

  A part of John wanted to stay and continue their little battle of wills across the lunchroom, but he relented and stood with them. They deposited their plates and dirtied utensils in a bin near the door.

  Tubbs called out to them as they moved to the doorway. “You guys need to come back for lunch, I’m making my fried chicken special.”

  Bella turned and waved. “Thanks, Tubbs!”

  John snorted and shook his head.

  “What?” Tim asked.

  John shook his head. “There’s just something about chicken today.”

  NINE

  Pan wasn’t entirely convinced questioning the Duster Clan would yield useful information. But he wasn’t anything if not thorough. He doubted Michael would’ve looked here for assistance, but stranger things had happened. Why else would you run straight to a Duster Enclave? Most people avoided them like the plague.

  As Pan dropped to the avenue, a fit, tough-looking sergeant moved to greet him before his feet were firmly planted on the ground. He tucked his battle-helmet under his left arm and rendered a salute, right fist planted firmly against his chest.

  The man’s smoke-grey of the Regent Guard, accented by red and yellow lines that trimmed the hardened armor plating, bore signs of battle similar to the armor Pan himself wore. The chevrons on his left breastplate identified him as a Master Sergeant and the name emblazoned in black letters underneath read, SIMMONS. The sergeant’s weapon—a long auto-rifle—rested vertically in clasps on his back.

  “Commander Pantiri,” the sergeant said, after Pan returned the salute. “My men have collected a small number of squatters and addicts from the surrounding buildings and have corralled them here.” He indicated a ten-foot high fence behind him. “They are, however, being less than cooperative.”

  Pan had no doubt of that. What kind of cooperation could you expect to get from junkies whose only thoughts were of their next fix? “Show me.”

  “At once, sir,” Sergeant Simmons said, then spun on his heel and marched toward the fence.

  The Dusters were clustered together in several groups, closely guarded by six fully armored Regent Guardsmen. Picked from the best of the best, Pan wondered how these men thought about being reduced to mere prison guards. Not that he cared. They were sworn to serve, and they would do that however he or the captain saw fit.

  The Dusters were filthier than the last bunch Pan dealt with, even though he’d been sure at the time that it couldn’t get any worse. Disgusting people.

  No, he thought, they don’t deserve to be called people.

  A private opened the gate as the Master Sergeant and Pan neared the fence, proceeded through without a word. The gate clicked shut behind them.

  “So far, we’ve located thirty-seven of them.” Simmons said. “Most were found in this building.”

  He motioned at the Laden & Kotch building to their right. “Several others were located in adjacent buildings. My men are still conducting sweeps of the area.”

  “You have done well, Sergeant. You and your men will be commended.”

  “It is our duty to serve, sir.”

  There were many among the higher echelons of the Regency who did not consider the Dusters to be alive, but merely shells of people fueled by Dust. The mass of junkies cowered under the watch eyes of the Guard.

  A few in the front shifted their gazes as Simmons stepped to the side, allowing Pan a full view of the captured junkies. Most wore loose overcoats with hoods pulled low. All of them wore the tell-tale goggles, blacked out against the brightness of the day; their vision ruined by the Dust their minds craved. Their clothes weren’t much more than rags, baggy shirts, and jackets. Fashion wasn’t much of a priority when you lived in a world of intoxicated darkness.

  Pan didn’t bother with introductions. “I am looking for information, and whoever gives me that information will be greatly rewarded.”

  No one spoke. They shuffled and turned away, trying their hardest to get inside their own little huddle of people, not that it was any safer inside than out.

  “Who can tell me what the Insurgents wanted?”

  Still nothing.

  A Corporal, who’d been slowly circling one of the groups, stopped and jabbed his rifle into the side of the closest Duster. “Speak up!”

  The Duster cried out and collapsed onto the dirt-covered street, but didn’t speak. Two reached out to help their fallen comrade, but quickly changed their minds when the Corporal swung his weapon at them. He shouted for them to get back and kicked the leg of the first.

  “Talk!” he growled.

  Pan didn’t need any help, but appreciated the man’s enthusiasm. “Someone amongst you knows something. You will tell me.”

  He looked over the huddled group. All of them looked away. It took Pan a moment to choose, then finally pointed at the Duster cowering under the corporal’s massive frame. “Bring him.”

  Simmons moved forward, grabbed the Duster by the collar of his oversized jacket and lifted him off the ground. The man cried out, clawing at the sergeant’s gauntleted hands as Simmons dragged him away from his people. The sergeant tossed the man hard at Pan’s feet, kicking puffs of dust into the air.

  The man rolled to his side and curled into a ball. The hood fell away, and the man’s goggles shifted on his face, uncovering one sunken eye. Pale skeletal fingers shot up to protect his face, quickly moved the goggles back into place. His cries turned to whimpers.

  “Get up!” Simmons shouted and delivered a kick to the small of the Duster’s back.

  The Duster screamed and his body stretched out uncontrollably. Simmons grabbed his jacket again and forced him to his knees. He held the man in
that position as Pan stepped forward.

  “You know something,” Pan said, hands clasped behind his back.

  The man whimpered and kept his head bowed, refusing to meet his gaze.

  “You will tell me.”

  The old man remained silent. He almost seemed oblivious to what went on around him. Pan thought that probably was not too far from the truth. Even if he knew something, Pan wondered if the man could physically tell him.

  Simmons delivered another kick to the Duster’s back that sent him flying forward. The man barely got his hands up in time, protecting his face from a hard pavement.

  He coughed, rolled to his side, and in a barely audible voice, the man said, “I don’t . . . I don’t know anything.”

  Pan saw Simmons start to kick again and raised his hand. The Duster looked up and noticed the outstretched hand, his face softened briefly, thankful to be spared another painful blow. His gratitude, however, was short lived.

  Pan flicked his wrist, and Pix shot forward, slamming into the man’s chest. The blow sent him sliding across the pavement. A gasp of surprise and terror erupted from the Duster’s still huddled together. The man rolled to a stop, his loose clothing wrapped haphazardly around him.

  The man doubled over and coughed onto the dusty street. The cough turned to hacking, and after a few long, gut-twisting heaves, the old man spit splotches of red blood and mucus onto the street.

  “Please,” the man wheezed, “I don’t—”

  Pan stepped forward again, arms extended to either side. A little bit of play-acting, but it helped sell the image he wanted them to see. Pan the All-Powerful.

  Just as Pix readied to strike, a high-pitched voice cried out. “He didn’t see anything!”

  Pan turned, scanning the crowd for the speaker. A group of terrified Dusters made it easy enough, shuffling away from the culprit. Pan frowned.

  The boy couldn’t have been older than ten; his tan pants were too short for him and his shirt too big. His matted hair stuck out in clumps, and looked like he hadn’t washed it weeks.

  The boy gawked nervously at the Duster’s still moving away from him, then seemed to steel himself and straighten. He turned and gazed squarely at Pan. If he was scared, he was doing a superb job of hiding it.

  It wasn’t every day that someone stood up to him. In fact, Pan couldn’t remember the last time it had happened.

  I like this one, he thought.

  One of the guards moved over, grabbed the boy by his arm and pulled him toward Pan.

  “Let me go!” the boy growled, trying to pull away.

  At best the boy weighed seventy pounds, the soldier didn’t even seem to notice his struggles. They moved around the first Duster, still laying in the street, and stopped a few feet from Pan. The boy gave one last valiant effort to pull free and failed.

  “I said, let me go!” he cried again, this time pounding against the soldier’s armor with his free hand.

  Several of the other soldiers laughed and pointed. After a few harmless slaps, the boy relented and once again, turned his angry stare on Pan.

  If only my own men had half of your spirit, what I could do to this world.

  Pan waved a hand. “Release him.”

  The soldier released his grip on the boy, who jerked his arm away and glared at his captor. The soldier grinned, but did not return the boys stare.

  “You were saying?” Pan asked, feeling more anticipation than he wanted.

  The boy glared at Pan. “He didn’t see anything.”

  “Yes, you said that. If you know so much about what he did not see, why don’t you tell me, what you saw?”

  “If I tell you, will you leave?”

  “A bargain?” Pan chuckled. “You are in no position to bargain, young man.”

  The boy crossed his arms. “If you promise to leave, I’ll tell you.”

  This boy intrigued Pan. He stepped closer and took a knee in front of him. “What is your name?”

  “Aaron. My name is Aaron.” There was a hint of embarrassment in the boy’s voice when he answered.

  “Aaron,” Pan repeated. “Tell me, Aaron, do you know who I am?”

  A nod. “You are the one they call the Corrupted Prince.”

  Pan heard the name before, of course, but until now no one had ever dared say it to his face. The name had never made any sense to him, but then again, very little of what the clans did made sense.

  He nodded, “I have heard that before yes, but do you know who I am?”

  The boy didn’t answer.

  “I am the Lord over everything you see, and all that you don’t see. This world is mine, including everything in it. I am responsible for Nevaris and all its many inhabitants, including you and your clansmen here.

  “I am also responsible for the safety of all who live and work here, so when there are people who threaten the peace and safety of my people, I take that very personally. If someone threatened the safety of your family, would you not protect them? You are a fighter, I like that. I believe you would fight to protect them.”

  “To the death,” the boy responded without hesitation.

  That impressed Pan, but he couldn’t help but wonder if that boy actually knew what that statement actually meant. “Indeed. Well, I feel the same way about my family, Aaron, and right now people are threatening my family. Will you help me find them? Will you help me protect them?”

  The boy lifted his chin. “If you leave, I will help you.”

  Pan grinned. “You are a brave boy. Tell me, where do you get this courage from? Certainly, you did not get it from any of your clansmen here.”

  He motioned to the Dusters. Some watched the exchange, most however, still huddled together in fear. Their cowardice put a sour taste in his mouth.

  “My father told me to always protect the Clan, no matter what.”

  “A noble sentiment. Where is he, I’d like to commend him on raising such a brave young man.”

  “He’s dead.”

  The fact that the boy’s tone never wavered impressed Pan even further. There was something about this boy. Something he liked. Not a great many things peeked Pan’s interest anymore, but this boy definitely had. Despite his feelings, however, he could not show any kind of weakness in front of the other Dusters or his men.

  “A pity he did not also teach you manners. I will not bargain with you, boy. You will tell me what you know, then I will consider what is to become of you.”

  The boy chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, then said, “There were three of them. Flew out of the sky like birds.”

  The boy paused for a moment, as though remembering. “I’d never seen anyone fly before. My friends neither. I saw you fly too, but their clothes didn’t look anything like yours.”

  Pan raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not sure. They looked too . . . ” he paused and glanced up in thought then said, “ . . . they looked too nice. The one, he looked like a soldier, but not like any of these. And he didn’t seem to know what was going on, like he was lost or confused or something. Then the other soldiers got here and destroyed our home.”

  Home indeed.

  The twinge behind his right eye caused him to wince briefly.

  Damn, he thought, that was sooner than expected.

  He kneaded his temple with a finger, trying to will the irritation away. He pulled the dose from his pocket and examined the casing. It glowed orange. Only three or four doses left. He’d gone through this one faster than the last. He touched the small cylinder to the spot behind his ear and pressed the release.

  His relief was sort lived, however, as he realized there were several eyes watching him. Dosing was simple reflex; he hadn’t thought about how it might look in front of the Dust Junkies. Far from their corrupted drug, his medication actually did help him, not that it would matter to these people. It didn’t matter what he was dosing.

  He glanced over the captive Dusters, most of who were transfixed on him and the boy, wa
iting attentively to see what would happen. The boy had confirmed his own suspicions; someone had come through. But, how? The opening of the Terminus was secret, even to his people; there was no way anyone on the other side would know where it would open. And even if they did, how would they know what it was or what to do with it?

  Simmons moved behind him. “Orders, Commander?”

  Pan considered this. Operationally speaking, it would be to their benefit to collect this raggedy bunch and ship them off to the Pride. He knew from speaking with the project directors on the enormous battleship they were in desperate need of new test subjects. Even now teams were scattered through Old Town hunting down suitable candidates, but in the end, he decided against it. Security above all.

  Pan eyed the boy, still standing defiantly. “Get rid of all the evidence, Sergeant.”

  “And them?” Simmons motioned to the captives.

  “Get rid of them, Sergeant. As far as anyone else knows, nothing happened here today,” Pan said. “No witnesses.”

  TEN

  After leaving the cafeteria, Bella led John and Tim through the corridors of the compound and down several levels to a space she described as her little piece of heaven.

  “Don’t touch anything,” Bella said, lifting finger as they entered.

  Tim gave John a look, rolled his eyes and leaned back against one of the shelves, crossing his arms.

  She stepped around a long table in the center of the cluttered room and bent over to work on something John didn’t recognize. Periodically, she switched out tools and talked to herself. No, she talked to whatever she worked on, as if ordering the device to comply to her will.

  A grin spread across John’s face, and after a few minutes he motioned to the worktable. “Wha—”

  “Shhh!” She raised finger at him. She worked a small tool into the side of a small flat device. “All most there.”

  After a moment she stood and set the tool down. “There.”