the men writhing on the floor; he reached the men standing at the elevators and granted his loving touch to their grenades. Then he floated on to the far stairwell, smiling at the music made by the men behind as their weapons erupted in smoke and pain.
More men on those far stairs, firing down at someone else.
It was getting harder to grant the wishes of the implements of war. Each one he touched took a little out of him. He could barely see his surroundings and knew there was not much more of him to give. Still he swept down the stairs, speaking approving words to the tools of destruction, giving them the power to act. Behind, there were more explosions and cries.
He travelled down a long stretch in which no weapons clamored for his attention. Then he met a new group of men.
He recognized the first of them. Athelstane of the Novimagos Guard. The lieutenant’s weapons, too, begged for his attention, but Doc looked in vain for grenades. It was hard to think, so hard—and then his vision swam and he could see no more.
“Doc, Gaby, is there any word on those additional troops?” Harris felt like an idiot, talking to an unoccupied corner of the room. Not that he hadn’t done it before, dozens of time, in college stage productions and rehearsals—but Ladislas and Welthy, guarding the door, kept smirking at him.
Harris reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the device there. Doc’s device, the new one. Until this morning he’d been carrying a device that masked his signal, the telltale energies that marked him as a grimworlder. This recent replacement did just the opposite: magnified those signals so that anyone with a tracer would read him not as a single grimworlder but as a whole pack of them.
He left it on. Until Doc pronounced the building clear of enemies, Harris got to be the decoy for Duncan
More men on those far stairs, firing down at someone else.
It was getting harder to grant the wishes of the implements of war. Each one he touched took a little out of him. He could barely see his surroundings and knew there was not much more of him to give. Still he swept down the stairs, speaking approving words to the tools of destruction, giving them the power to act. Behind, there were more explosions and cries.
He travelled down a long stretch in which no weapons clamored for his attention. Then he met a new group of men.
He recognized the first of them. Athelstane of the Novimagos Guard. The lieutenant’s weapons, too, begged for his attention, but Doc looked in vain for grenades. It was hard to think, so hard—and then his vision swam and he could see no more.
“Doc, Gaby, is there any word on those additional troops?” Harris felt like an idiot, talking to an unoccupied corner of the room. Not that he hadn’t done it before, dozens of time, in college stage productions and rehearsals—but Ladislas and Welthy, guarding the door, kept smirking at him.
Harris reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the device there. Doc’s device, the new one. Until this morning he’d been carrying a device that masked his signal, the telltale energies that marked him as a grimworlder. This recent replacement did just the opposite: magnified those signals so that anyone with a tracer would read him not as a single grimworlder but as a whole pack of them.
He left it on. Until Doc pronounced the building clear of enemies, Harris got to be the decoy for Duncan