Final_RexRising_ChrystallaThoma_Kindle Read online

  Rex Rising

  In a world where parasites create new human races, Elei leads a peaceful life as an aircar driver — until a mysterious attack on his boss sends him fleeing with a bullet in his side and the fleet at his heels. Pursued for a secret he does not possess, he has but one thought: to stay alive. Yet his pursuers aren’t inclined to sit down and talk, and that’s not the end of Elei’s troubles. The two powerful parasites inhabiting his body, at a balance until now, choose this moment to bring him down, leaving Elei with no choice but to trust in people he barely knows in a mad race against time. It won’t be long before he realizes he must find out this deadly secret — a secret that might change the fate of his world and everything he has ever known — or die trying.

  Rex Rising © Copyright 2011 by Chrystalla Thoma

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, events, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover design by Chrystalla Thoma

  http://chrystallathoma.wordpress.com

  To Carlos

  For being with me, for always encouraging me to follow my dreams and for setting me free. I love you.

  Acknowledgements

  First of all I would like to thank Marion Sipe for her immense help and support. Without her friendship, encouragement and enthusiasm, but also her technical knowledge and love of stories, I would never have got here. Thank you!

  Thank you also Jeff Hill, for your support and help. Your great comments on the first drafts of the novel were an immense help.

  I also want to thank my beta readers, Arlene Webb and Anita Siraki, for their valuable comments, as well as critique partners Lori Strongin, Randall Bird, Cyrus Keith, Katie Salidas, and E.D. Walker for their invaluable advise and encouragement. Special thanks to Claire Bugler Hewitt for doing a final proofreading, on top of giving me excellent general comments.

  A huge thank you to my parents for raising me up with so much love, and to my friends and family for putting up with me when I am lost in my own world. I have been truly blessed with great people around me.

  Chapter 1

  Blood seeped between Elei’s fingers.

  The small wound was above his left hipbone. He pressed down harder to staunch the bleeding and gritted his teeth. His pulse leaped under his palm as he sat shivering on a hard, cold bench. He rested his other hand on the grip of his holstered gun. In his blurry eyes, everything had a shimmering edge, suspended between reality and dream.

  Then the world tilted.

  Danger.

  Elei jerked and sharp pain erupted in his side. Hissing, he drew his gun and waited. His possessed eye throbbed; cronion, the strongest of his resident parasites, hated surprises. The world lit up in bright colors. Be ready. His heart pounded in his chest, sent bruising beats against his ribs. He swallowed past a dry throat and gripped his gun until his knuckles creaked.

  Nothing moved. Oblong objects around him pulsed in cool hues of green and blue. Safe. Nothing living. He relaxed a little. For a while he simply sat, left hand pressing against the wound, the cold metal barrel of the gun held against his right thigh.

  “Hey, you,” a man’s voice said from behind.

  Clamping his jaw, Elei lifted the gun and turned to point in the general direction of the voice. Cold wind blew his jacket hood back, allowing him a wider view. The man appeared at the right periphery of Elei’s tainted vision — a splash of red. He went still when Elei cocked the hammer. The click rang too loud in the quiet.

  “Calm down, will you,” the man said, raising his hands. “Just checking on you. You’re bleeding all over my boat.”

  The boatman. Elei let out a breath and lowered the gun, but didn’t click the safety back on, just in case. The cold breeze ruffled his short hair and water splashed and murmured. The low hum of an engine set his teeth on edge. What was he doing in a boat out at sea? He prodded his memories, but came up blank.

  Cronion beat at the back of his eyeball like a hammer. He forced his tense muscles to relax and rubbed his eye with his thumb until the dull ache eased. This time, when he blinked, he saw the surface of things, his unfamiliar surroundings — the wet prow, moonlight glinting on metal benches like the one he sat on, yellow lifesavers underneath them. The boatman stood by the rail, dressed in shabby trousers and a pale yellow shirt, watching him from under his dark cap. The light from a lamp set on a bench pooled around him. The sky stretched naked above, night-black and starry.

  The boat rocked and listed. His legs slid. He was falling.

  He threw his hands to the sides, to find a handhold, the gun screeching against metal. His fingers caught the edge of the bench. He clutched it, the deep, sharp pain in his side squeezing the air from his lungs, and he bent over, panting.

  Broken pieces of memories rushed back with a deafening roar. Shots fired. Running through the streets. The docks of Ost.

  He was crossing the straits between the great islands.

  Shivers crawled up his spine. He lifted his hand and stared at the blood on his fingers. He’d been shot, but couldn’t remember who’d done it.

  Elei groaned to himself. He laid his gun — an antique, semi-automatic Rasmus — on his lap and wrapped his arms around himself, tucking his icy hands under his armpits; hoping fervently this was nothing but a dream, and knowing he just wasn’t that lucky.

  “Hey.” The boatman approached him, stepping over the benches with his long, spindly legs. Red color flashed over his heart, pulsing with each beat.

  Elei straightened with a wince and raised his gun. It seemed to have grown heavier; he could barely lift it. “What do you want now?”

  “We’re almost there.” The boatman’s voice resonated with a hidden growl. When he raised the dakron lamp, its light revealed a leathery, deeply lined face and bright blue eyes. “Better get ready to jump, do you hear?”

  “I heard you.” Elei kept the gun leveled, his arm muscles straining. Where in the hells are we? Cold sweat sluiced down his back. His nostrils flared and his body tensed with the urge to run. Run where? He was in a boat, for all the gods’ sakes, and yet he knew that even here, in the openness of the sea, he couldn’t afford to let down his guard.

  Holstering the gun, he struggled to rise but his damn legs cramped and resisted. Shivers danced down his spine and adrenaline made his blood pump faster, so it trickled down his side, scalding his chilled flesh.

  “Hurry up, boy,” muttered the boatman and his hand closed around Elei’s arm like a band of steel. “We can’t linger here.” He hauled him up as if he weighed nothing, the movement sending sharp claws of pain deep into Elei’s side.

  Hells. Elei gritted his teeth and refused to make any sound as the boatman dragged him to the rail and left him there, the boat rocking with the movement. Muttering, the man went back to his steering wheel and navigated the boat through the dark waters.

  In the distance, squat buildings, old warehouses, rose from the white mist of night. Starlight reflected off polished gray walls. The vacant pier jutted out into the sea like an arm of stone. The boat swerved toward it, then slowed down and bumped to a stop, thumping gently against the square blocks.

  Elei inhaled the humid air and tried to get his bearings, to remember something, anything. In the end, he had to admit defeat. “Which island is this? Is it Kukno?”

  “Are you saying I tri
cked you?” The boatman’s voice was dry. “We’re right where you told me to take you. Dakru.”

  Dakru! The heart of the Seven Islands, risen in their perfect center, pushed out of the depths of the sea by the gods — at the beginning, before their divine hands molded the flesh of fish and birds, and then man. Elei stared at the shore, not quite believing he was there.

  Until the boatman planted a heavy hand on his shoulder and shook him. “Hey, snap out of it. Pay me my second half and jump out now, or the sea will have you.”

  Looking into his hard eyes, Elei had no doubt he meant it. He reached into his pocket and took out his thin wad of bills. Blood ran in a hot line down his hip as he counted and gave over the money. The boatman counted it again, eyes darting to the remaining bills and Elei’s gun peeking out of the holster.

  Not good. Grimacing, Elei climbed out of the boat, scrambling on hands and knees to keep his balance on the blocks of the pier, fumbling in the half-darkness as the sea sang and sighed all around him and cold water sprayed his face. His left wrist throbbed, felt slightly sprained. His body felt numb, uncoordinated; the pain in his side echoed in his limbs, in his head.

  Like an insect, he crawled on the giant squares, skinning hands and knees, until he finally reached the pier road. He could have wept for relief. Maneuvering his heavy legs, he climbed to his feet and glanced back at the boat which was already speeding away — a speck blacker than blackness, a white line of surf. Then he turned with a knot in his stomach to face the unknown shore.

  The island was Dakru, but which city was this one? A memory returned and Elei frowned. Krisia. The boatman was supposed to drop him at Krisia, a small enough seaport to avoid Gultur police control. What had possessed him to go there?

  Elei staggered along the pier toward the storehouses lining the seafront and the wound hurt like a son of a bitch with every step. He should have hidden in the mountains of Ost until he figured out what happened.

  Nobody in their right mind would come to Dakru. The Gultur presence was stronger there. Their capital, Dakru City, the Gultur stronghold, rose in the center of the island, dominating the plains at the feet of the rugged mountains, and the dakron mines spread around it in a spiderweb of power. The source of the Gultur wealth lay in the control of the dakron mines, where the mineral fuel, pure and invaluable, was extracted. The police presence would be stronger here as well. And he was an illegal migrant.

  This is mad. Why would I…

  Someone had chased him. A face he knew, a man’s hard features, surfaced in his memory. Falx? He wondered why Pelia’s head of security would go after him, though it made no difference now. Nevertheless, it explained why he’d chosen — wisely in retrospect — not to travel with legal transportation over the immense bridges between the islands. He’d still been able to think when he’d boarded the boat, body pumped full of adrenaline.

  Now the images, the words, the thoughts turned hazy. He stumbled and had to stop to catch his breath, his hand clenching on his side. Just move. He licked his lips, his throat raw from thirst, knowing he couldn’t rest there — too conspicuous, too dangerous. Keep moving. He had to get to Artemisia. He knew that. And from there…

  Elei grappled with the memory. Where did he have to go? An address, he had an address. Where was it? His hand dove into his pocket and drew out a crumpled scrap of paper. The letters jerked and swam in his vision.

  There. He must get there. A name. And a place, an address. He wondered how far he had to go, how easy it’d be to find transportation and whether streetcars ran that stretch. He pushed the paper deep into his pocket, patted it. The knot in his gut unwound a little. He had a goal. Get there. Just do it.

  Go to Aerica.

  Find Kalaes Ster.

  Chapter 2

  The message was brief and to the point. “Our Ost connection was terminated. Position of expected shipment unknown. Locate it.”

  The air left Hera’s lungs. Terminated? Unknown? She erased the message, her hand trembling. Sobek’s balls, she’d not seen this coming. She’d assumed all was going according to plan.

  Gods. Pelia. Project Siren.

  Hera bowed her head, fighting the cold grip of fear in her chest. Pelia was dead, and Hera had to know what exactly had taken place. She flexed her fingers and willed her pulse to slow.

  “Snap out of it,” she whispered to herself. “Do something.” All this waiting and hoping in the dark, only to find that the light would reveal death and despair.

  I will not let this happen.

  After accessing the classified page of the secret police, she entered another password, opened the newsfeed and scanned the fuzzy images recorded by the surveillance cameras across the street from Pelia’s apartment.

  A shooting.

  The gunshots sounded tinny on the bad recording of the cameras. Pelia’s long, flat aircar — the new S152 model — appeared. A thin, young man dressed in dark clothes stumbled out of the aircar door, holding Pelia’s limp body in his arms, and laid her down on the deck. He knelt over her. Then more shots rang and fuzzy silhouettes with big guns in their hands moved out of the shadows. The image fizzled and went black.

  Hera banged her fist on the desk. Nobody outside the Undercurrent was supposed to know the importance of Pelia’s work. Pelia had been betrayed.

  A traitor walked among them.

  Icy sweat trickled down Hera’s spine and her hands trembled. Knowing she had no time for a breakdown, she shoved her fear deep inside its box. A quick search of the message pool showed her that the shipment had not yet been found. She sagged in her chair, releasing a pent-up breath. Then who had it?

  Her eyes narrowed. The boy. He must have the shipment. Pelia’s chauffeur, right? Sort of an adopted son she’d recruited from a monks’ factory on Ost. He’d been with her when she was shot, and therefore was the only person to whom she could have given it.

  Hera pushed back her chair, grabbed her longgun and her glitcher from a drawer and stood. Others had already seen the images. They would be searching for the boy right now. Dammit all to the five hells.

  Holstering her gun, she stepped out into the lobby of the administration offices and strode out and down a passage leading to the great auditorium of the Echo Palace. Turning abruptly at the fresco of the butterfly garden, she headed left, to the main hangar. Her mission was compromised. It was imperative that she got hold of the boy, and time was running short.

  As she crossed to the helicopters, she nodded a greeting to the hangar officer, a tall, lithe woman with ash blond hair in a braid. While climbing into the first helicopter in the row and powering up the system, she gazed at the woman.

  Curvier than most, filling out her gray uniform well, the young officer turned to stare back at Hera, fine features locked in a scowl.

  Hera winked, blew a kiss and raised her forefinger and thumb, flashing the woman an “all well” sign. Then she took the helicopter out of the hangar and up over the Tower’s white turrets and green groves, over the grey slopes of the mountains and then the boring plain.

  She would find the boy — if he’d made it out of the shooting alive.

  Chapter 3

  By the time Elei reached the end of the pier, blood soaked his leg all the way down and black dots danced in his eyes. If he didn’t find water and some food soon, he’d probably pass out.

  Unless the street gangs or the Gultur police got to him first.

  Joy.

  The promenade spread left and right into patchy darkness, discolored walls, dirty windows and piles of trash lit by sputtering lampposts. A cold, sharp breeze sliced his cheeks and he pulled on his hood. A dog yowled and a bell went off somewhere in the distance. The suffocating stench of rotten fish and other organic trash, and the acrid fumes of dakron from the generators stifled him.

  A sudden movement caught his attention, a sinuous shadow creeping along a wall. Cold sweat rolled down his temples and his fingers flexed on the gun grip. A second later, a huge rat stalked into the light, followe
d by a black cat. They jumped and skidded away on an exposed tube of nepheline alloy.

  Elei breathed out and licked his salty lips. He followed the waterfront street to its end and then threaded his way through narrow, wet streets and squares deep and dark like wells. Ghost-like, he placed one foot in front of the other, barely feeling them, step after step, until he exited onto an avenue. Dawn was breaking and the sky was fragmenting into colors — pink, bright red and crimson.

  Crimson like blood. The image of a blood-smeared face flashed through his mind. He leaned against a grimy shop window, grappling with the memory, but it splintered and faded. He breathed in and out and pressed his face to the cool glass of the mullioned windows.

  Inside, old, broken dolls sat arrayed on rows of shelves, among ancient teapots and cups. An antiquary. A stuffed falcon stared back at him with empty eyes. He shuddered and pushed himself off the shop front, hand pressed against his smarting wound.

  Ramshackle buildings leaned against each other like old people, cutting off the daylight. Rusty-barred balconies displayed bright lines of laundry hung to dry. Compared to Ost, everything looked newer and cleaner. A small, two-passenger aircar zipped by him and was gone around a corner, while more aircars, blue, silver, red, of different sizes and models, weaved among old streetcars that creaked by on huge wheels.

  He limped down the avenue, alongside shops interspersed with diners and warehouses. A square opened to his left with a gray Gultur temple taking up its center, cold and faceless like a laboratory. There had been a smaller one in Sestos, the capital of Ost, and he’d always taken a detour to avoid it.

  A robed, hooded procession of Gultur was climbing the broad steps of the temple. Elei stumbled back to hide behind the square, metallic pillar of an info-pole. It was impossible to make out their faces or the shape of their bodies, but Elei knew them to be women. All Gultur were, as their parasite ensured — an entirely female race.