The Treasure of Lei Fong Wu

Chapter Sixty-Six

RELENTLESS -29:07

“How would you like some good news, Sir?” Drake asked Sinclair in the gloom of the Bridge. The reactor was still out of service, so only the emergency lights and the glow from the monitors illuminated the room. “I just got word from the little shuttle. Carerra was able to boost the comm signal and contact the drones – the few that are left. That gorram fighter has gone through the others like hot piss through a snowbank. But he said he had a positive comm lock, and could even tweak their software, if you wanted.” “How many are left?” Sinclair asked, tiredly. “Five. No, four. The outermost ones. Whoever he is, he’s thorough.” “If he took out eight top-line combat drones, he’s more than thorough, he’s a ruttin’ ace. You know what software they’re running?” “Uh . . . I think . . . the Marstech Interceptor package?” “Yes. Marstech. The ‘ideal comprehensive combat algorithm for orbital interdiction operations’, if you believe their marketing department. That’s what I get for going with off-the-rack software. ‘Industry standard’ my ass!” “Obviously, it isn’t enough.” “To be fair, we set those drones up to screen for a transport, not dogfight an interceptor. Maybe we should upgrade the software to something more appropriate.” “Like what, Sir?” “Hmmm. Combat robotics isn’t my specialty, but . . .” he snapped his fingers decisively. “Access the secure file database. Use my authorization. See if there is a copy of the old Tacticorp Orbital Defender program stuck in there – there should be. I bootlegged a copy before I left the service – great piece of software, that was. We used it in the war to coordinate large-scale aerial assaults, anything with more than three drones. Sturdy platform. And brilliant at cooperative networking.” “Aye, Sir!” Drake said as he went to work. Ten minutes later he looked up. “Got it! It’s Version 3.4, Sir – is that the latest?” “It’s the best,” Sinclair acknowledged. “The 3.6 patch stunk, and the 4.0 version just wasn’t as smart as it needed to be – to many frills, not enough meat. Go ahead and forward it to Carerra for upload – tell him to give them each about four minutes to reboot. They’ll be dormant that long, but it will be worth it, in the end.” “Is changing software really going to make that much difference, Sir?” Drake asked skeptically as he did as ordered. “Yes. Tacticorp OD3.4 was one of the best combat algorithms ever created. Hardened aces flew combat sims against it for months – I remember the trials. During the war the drone fleet was able to use it to screen out the Browncoats’ counterattack over Persephone. We lost ninety percent of the drones, but the cruisers were able to retreat virtually undamaged. The Independent squadrons were cut to pieces. Four drones on TOD3.4 against one ancient Marauder? He’ll get shredded. That guy would have to be the Bodhisattva of Flight to escape what they’ll do to him.” “I hope you’re right, sir,” Drake said, doubtfully. “Because if he does, then he’s going to be buzzing around us – and we got nothing to stop him with. He can strafe us ‘till we decompress, or just lob missiles at us, and we can’t even maneuver.” “Just brimming with optimism today, aren’t you? We can’t focus on that right now. The drones will get him long before that. Until the Chief can tell me what’s happening in the core, we’ll just have to trust that the machines know their business. If they don’t, well, then we just bought a little more time.” “I was just thinking about the nukes that Mr. Martel said were on board. They’d be pretty useless against drones, but us . . .” “The Relentless can stand a nuke hit. Warship, remember?” “Yes, sir. I’ll get right on those drones.” Twenty minutes later Drake pronounced the task done. “Let’s see if the bastard can wiggle his way through that!” he said expectantly. Over the course of the next ten minutes, that’s exactly what the bastard did. Sinclair’s opinion of the man’s piloting skills increased after every encounter. He flew that antique plane with precision and knowledge, in a particularly erratic style. He was unorthodox – he did things no Alliance-trained pilot would have tried, and his firing solutions seemed more miss than hit most times – but the actual piloting was brilliant. As the seconds ticked by Sinclair became more and more annoyed with him. “Is the remote option available yet?” he demanded. “Sir, the techs want a few more minutes to establish control – they say that the planet’s weird core is causing some issues!” Drake replied. “Tell them to get their ruttin’ act together, because in about three more minutes there won’t be a functioning drone left to control!” he barked. It was actually closer to five, but the result was the same. He swore bitterly when the last dot flickered off the telemetry screen. It was about that time when Drake spoke up. “Word from the little shuttle, Sir! They have a control solution!” “And here we sit without a ruttin’ drone on the board. Gorram humped up ‘verse!” he spat. Just then the telemetry screen chimed and a lone red dot reappeared. “Is it a glitch? Is it back?” he demanded. “Do we have a drone active?” “Uh . . . it’s pretty badly damaged, but it answers our signal, Sir.” “Tell the shuttle to establish control over it and run a diagnostic. Then have them shunt control up here to Console Two. I’m going to pilot it.” “Aye, sir.” Sinclair took the vacant control console and began programming it to act as a flightboard emulator. As the data link was established he saw that the probe was very sick. Over half the systems wouldn’t work, including all of the weapons systems. “Gorram it!” he spat. “No lasers, missiles, or mines!” “I take it they aren’t programmed for reasoned debate,” observed Drake from over his shoulder. “Not as a primary function, no,” Sinclair responded through clenched teeth. “Well, what can we do with one broken-down, unarmed drone? Shall I sound ‘abandon ship’?” “You lack imagination, Drake,” Sinclair said intently. “When your fancy laser weaponry and devastating missiles are down, you use whatever’s at hand to achieve your objective.” “Sir, he’s headed right for us!” Drake exclaimed as a big blue dot appeared at the outer reaches of the monitor. “I figured he would be,” nodded the commander. “I expected it, actually.” “Well, commencing to . . . shoot, or whatever, that would be a wise course of action in my opinion,” the younger man said, worried. “Calm yourself,” breathed Sinclair. “I have the weapon ready. Just have to get it in position – that will be the tricky part.” “Can you get one of the lasers working?” “Lasers?” Sinclair said with a small grin as he completed his instructions to the drone, “we don’t need no ruttin’ lasers.” “Then what?” “Mass. Remember ‘f=ma’ from your physics tutorial? Force equals mass times acceleration.” “I don’t get it,” Drake admitted, confused. “You will,” Sinclair insisted. “Hopefully, you’ll get it just before he does.” “You confuse me, Sir,” the younger man sighed. “Watch and learn, Drake. You’re about to get a lesson in brute-force aerospacial combat.”

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DELTA TEAM LEADER -28:40

Wash stared back at the remains of his engines, the smoke obscuring most of the damage. He was no expert – well, actually he was – but he didn’t need to be to tell that cascades of sparks and flatuant belches of thick black-gray smoke meant something was amiss. “Uh-oh. Zoe's gonna be pissed,” he said under his breath. He had been so close. Technically speaking, he had won. All four of the remaining drones were destroyed, thanks to some of the most inspired flying he’d ever done. One vanquished out of hand with a well-placed missile, long before he was in realistic laser range. The other three had quickly ganged up on him, presenting him with the most challenging combat algorithm yet. It had taken him twenty minutes of envelope-pushing aerobatics and inspired pilotcraft to take care of them. One by one he had taken them down, sending the last one tumbling into the Black, mortally wounded and leaving a trail of frozen coolant and thick smoke behind it. He had spent a solid minute screaming jubilantly in the cockpit, only the stars for company. When he had calmed himself he had realized that he had less than ten percent of his fuel left. Just barely enough to get back to the docking cradle. He had set course and poured on the speed with maximum efficiency in mind. But then he had come up on the slender, dormant hulk of the Relentless, and he just couldn’t stop himself from gloating. He really should have. But he didn’t. He made several obscene gestures, knowing full well no one could see him and being disappointed about that. He wished there was a way to moon them – Jayne would appreciate that. But despite the spiritual satisfaction it would provide, that was something else they wouldn’t even notice. Wash wanted to get their attention, let them know they and their puny robots had been schooled by the best. It was frustrating. He could blast them. He had two high-explosive missiles left, one on each wing, and he could put them where they would do the most harm. But there were people on that boat – knocking robot drones out of the sky was one thing. So was shooting at someone who was shooting back. But there were temporarily defenseless bounty hunters on that boat, and Wash wasn’t the kind of man who could fire on a defenseless boat. Mal was, and his wife. Jayne, definitely. But he couldn’t do it, no matter how annoying they had been. That’s when he got his brilliant idea. He parked his tough little ship about five hundred meters away, then popped open the fire control console for his lasers. The weapons were very sophisticated, able to be tuned in a variety of ways. You could increase power to them to the point of blowing out your capacitors or melting the silica lensface. Or you could dial down their potency until they would barely scorch the metal exterior of a ship. Wash chose the latter configuration. They also could be unlocked from their attack position and directed manually in a forty five degree arc, using the joystick to control them. That’s what Wash did. Then he spent fifteen glorious minutes engraving HOBAN “WILDFIRE” WASHBURN JUST KICKED MY ASS in three-meter high letters across the port side of the frigate. He whistled while he worked. He was adding the three characters of his chop to the graffiti when it happened. That last drone, apparently, hadn’t been quite as dead as he thought. It came crashing down from relative north, impacting on the delicate ceramic surface of his engine cones, and in the process of destroying itself it took about a third of his ship with it. It also sent him tumbling out of control, warnings sounding, his console beeping and bleeping and buzzing and flashing lights. It had taken a while to get righted, the controls being sluggish and inaccurate. When he had finally figured out what had happened, assessed the damage according to his diagnostics, and unstrapped to visually scan the gaping hole where his engine used to be, he made a point to get pointed in the right direction. The maneuvering thrusters, thankfully, still worked. Precious else did. The reactor was leaking like an incontinent drunk, spewing radiation in all directions – including his own. The levels were not lethal just yet – the cockpit was well-shielded – but more than a few hours in this situation and the whole having-kids-with-Zoë argument would be pretty much moot. The hydraulics, of course, were gone, bleeding pretty little bubbles of pink fluid in a trail behind him. Main power, lasers – he had been so close to finishing! – and his communication antenna were all shredded. Oh, and those big, powerful engines that he needed to cross the distance back to the Sun Tzu and safety and home. They were utterly destroyed. While the ship loomed large in his viewport, it was a large ship, and the one place he needed to get to was a depressingly long way away. At least 4000 miles, give or take. On the plus side, the cockpit had not been breached. He had several hours of atmo left and enough hydro to drown in. The life-support system seemed to be running well enough off of auxiliary power, and his suit had another four hours of use beyond that. His forward maneuvering jets worked fine, as did his avionics and radar. He could point the ship in any direction he wanted, and even get a little momentum going. But the thrusters were not designed for sustained bursts, and had little fuel left. They wouldn’t get him home, not before the radiation or lack of atmo killed him.. He couldn’t call for help, not in a conventional way. Master Lei may have been watching – or he may not be. Kaylee was probably dead asleep by now. No one else would be looking in his direction. Zoe would likely come to seek him, after she concluded her business. But he doubted she would have time for such until the shooting stopped. He considered somehow soliciting the frigate for rescue, but considering what he had just done to add to their ship’s décor, he doubted that they would be inclined to be charitable. Nor was he eager to communicate with a group that had been shooting at his wife for a couple of months, now. If they even could help with their busted reactor. He had to figure this one out on his own. Or die trying. 4000 miles. No thrusters. Bad radiation leak. Very little momentum. No way to call for help. Somewhere among those facts was an equation that would lead him home to his wife. Wash stared at the smoking ruin of his engines and groaned as he considered his options. “Gorram it, I hate word problems!” *

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RECONSTITUTED GAMMA TEAM -24:08

They took the loudmouthed one first. There’s one in every unit, some idiot who can’t control either his temper or his tongue. In the Hammerstrike team, owing to the slipshod way it was put together, there was a higher percentage of them than normal – ordinarily, such ill-suited men would have been vetted out of service in basic training, but things had been rushed on Madonna. So Cpl. Landon R. Goetz, Alliance Defense Police Reserve, Retired, had been tolerated by the Hammer Group administration and leadership despite his unique ability to irritate the go se out of everyone who came into personal contact with him. Out of his mouth flew a near-constant stream of obscenities, hyperbolic observations, personal aggrandizements, and highly embellished speculations on how things were so humped that doom and disaster were inevitable. His new comrades had tolerated his vitriol with a combination of avoidance and outright disdain. His commanders gritted their teeth and barked back their own insults while detailing him to a series of demeaning and degrading tasks as punishment. Had he not been an excellent hand-to-hand fighter, a crack shot, and an accomplished tracker they would have stuffed him out an airlock sans spacesuit and improved the collective gene pool weeks ago. The Hammer Group had chosen to tolerate Goetz’s big mouth. The White Tigers were not as forgiving. When they began to sort the prisoners by faction and rank, he let into them with a string of insults in English, Chinese, and a half-dozen other tongues that would have made a seasoned spacer blush. The Tigers just shrugged, picked him up by his shoulders, and carted him off, screaming all the way. After his departure there was a general murmur of speculation as to what, exactly was being done to him. Familiar with the specifics of Book’s ordeal, Mal let them know, in no uncertain terms, what lay before the irritating ass-wipe. It helped break the monotony of confinement. It was broken still further when the faint but unmistakable sounds of screams of agony could be heard in the distance. Mal wasn’t certain exactly where they were being kept, except that it was so near to his goal of the Engine Room that he could taste it. They passed the time concocting increasingly improbable escape plans and swapping tall tales, trying to ignore their impending fate. “Whistling in the dark,” River muttered, half-conscious. “Pain and fear, fear and pain, one is snow, the other, rain,” she sang in an eerie, childlike voice, her eyelids fluttering intermittently. “I do hope they didn’t damage her,” Colonel Campbell said with a sigh. “Her brother will be vexed with me.” “Oh yeah, nothin’ worse’n a hundred an’ fifty pounds of pissed off medic,” Jayne spat sarcastically. “I mean, what could he do?” “Let you bleed to death on the operating table,” River interjected. “Give you the wrong meds. Use surgical glue to fasten your penis to your leg while you sleep. Accidentally amputate something. Use dirty needles. Give you the wrong kind of blood in a transfusion. Give you a med he knows you’re allergic to. Infect you with a nasty germ. Shave a smiley face in your chest hairs,” she recited. “Sew a—” “Best not to piss the boy off,” agreed Mal, interrupting. “River, you stay alive, y’hear? I like my penis right where it is.” “Penis, willy, Johnson, John Thomas, codpiece, wang, pole, piston, pork, man-missile, meat, wedding tackle—” she started chanting. “Enough!” spat the frustrated Jayne. “Don’t wanna think ‘bout you thinkin’ bout doin’ harm t’my manhood! Girl gives me the creeps, truth!” “Just settle down,” Mal ordered, despite the snickers from the Hammerstrike men. “No need to go callin’ attention. Let’s go back to plannin’ our miraculous escape.” River settled down, curling up into the fetal position and muttering to herself incessantly. There was quiet discussion about their situation, and eventually the grim conclusion that a massed break-out would be difficult, if not impossible, to pull off with Tigers coming in every five minutes or so. “Captain,” Campbell whispered urgently a moment later. “A word?” “I seem to have a moment,” Mal considered. “What’s on your mind?” “Under no circumstances can we allow the Tyrant full access to the Engine Room,” Campbell insisted. “I don’t care if he slays every one of us, he must not be allowed to have that code. Should he take the ship he will launch a reign of terror that will make the last war seem like the Cronos Cup Championship match!” “I will not allow that,” Mal vowed. “I absolutely will not let that happen, you have my word. What’s the Cronos Cup Championship?” “What code?” asked Jayne, mystified. “Cronos is a tiny, wealthy moon that prides itself on the civility of its sporting life. The Cup is a football prize. There was a scandal a few years back because one of the winning players was reportedly drunk at the after party.” “Heaven forbid! Of course I won’t let that happen. But for the sake o’ argument, I’d like to hear your reasonings.” “Fair enough,” conceded the Colonel. “This ship contains a sizeable arsenal, not just of conventional weaponry but of atomics, biologics, and chemicals. Should he control these, he will not hesitate to use them . . . liberally. He has done so before, and he will again, should he have the opportunity. There is no tool too vile for him to consider in pursuit of his goals. He is utterly unfettered by anything remotely resembling decency. All of our lives would be a cheap price to pay to deny him that code.” “What code?” demanded Jayne. “There was a code? How come no one tol’ me about a gorram code?” “Because you weren’t paying attention,” Mal chided. He returned his attention to Campbell. “You know there ain’t no guarantees when there’s torture in play,” he reminded the spy. “Of course not,” Campbell agreed. “However, being forewarned gives you the opportunity to obfuscate, should the occasion arise.” “There’s gonna be . . . skatin’?” Jayne continued, confused. “No one tells me nothin’!” “I’ll take that into consideration, Colonel. I hope your boys share your resolve. As far as Serenity goes, I can lie to St. Peter with a straight face, and intend to. My people, I suspect we’ll cloak the truth behind a wall of ignorance and lunacy. Best I can do.” “I ain’t crazy!” Jayne protested. “That’s my ignorance,” Mal said, proudly. “My God!” River exclaimed, her eyes bright with fear, “don’t let those children eat those beans!” “And that’s my lunacy. See? Foolproof!” Mal said wryly. An hour later they brought what was left of Goetz back into the room. He was – thankfully – unconscious. His face was one large bruise, blood flowed freely from the shattered stubs of his teeth, and his arms flopped like huge, swollen rubber chickens. Upon close inspection, there were little circular bruises up and down their length, from shoulder to fingers, where someone had apparently used a mallet to shatter every bone in his arm. The arms and hands were swelling and darkening with pooled blood. Campbell stared at the man for a moment, then shook his head. “He’ll be dead within the hour,” he pronounced. Mal nodded sagely. “Man can’t rightly come back from that. Not without a powerful amount of help.” “It’d take a double amputation, minimum. Poor bastard,” one of his Hammerstrike comrades said. “Wished I could end his misery.” “He won’t regain consciousness,” pointed out Campbell. “What the hell did they do that for?” Jayne asked, appalled. “They gonna end a man like that, can’t they dispose o’ his carcass someplace other than my lap?” “To frighten us,” Campbell supplied. “The next person they haul into the Tyrant’s presence is going to have that vision on his mind when the questions come.” “That won’t stop him,” Mal said softly. “I saw what they did to the preacher. It’s one thing to put a man to the question to obtain intelligence. What that bastard did,” he said, his eyes flashing and his nostrils flaring, “wasn’t short of brute sadism.” “Vile,” agreed Campbell. Jayne stared at the man for a moment, his eyes wide. He turned back to Mal. “I ain’t . . . I can’t . . .” he struggled for words. “I feel my wu gettin’ disturbed, Mal! This is about as bad as Reavers!” “We’ll get out of this,” Mal assured him. “How?” Jayne demanded. “You know somethin’ I don’t? ‘Cause a little hopeful speculation would sure be a salve to my piece o’ mind about now!” “We got luck on our side,” Mal declared, quietly. Jayne looked at the two-dozen bound men, then at the recent torture victim, and then back at Mal. “Yeah, I can see that. Lucky bastards, ain’t we?” “You ain’t dead yet,” Mal pointed out. “Well, ain’t that just a comfort?” “See to that mouth, Cobb,” Mal warned, loosing patience. “Sometimes you just gotta trust everything will work out. I ain’t got a plan, but I do got my wits about me. When the time comes for Fortune to give us a chance t’do something, we’ll know. Ain’t even gonna say it’ll work, but somethin’ will happen.” He looked over to where River was gently rocking back and forth muttering unintelligibly in horror about kids and beans. “You don’t hear River complainin’, do you?” The look on Jayne’s face demonstrated what he thought of that as an indicator. The debate went on for a while longer – how long, no one could tell – but was brought to a close when the Major came in, flanked by four burly Tigers, to select the next subject. With a discerning eye he selected Fao, one of the Imperial commandos. Fao struggled just a bit, then followed the Major with a resigned expression when one of the Tigers raised a rifle-butt threateningly at his face. He glanced for an instant at Colonel Campbell, who gave the tiniest shake of his head, then followed his captors resolutely. “One of my own men,” Campbell said sadly. “Fao Lin Tai. Sergeant. Were that they had chosen me. I would have given them a good long look at what willpower is.” “Don’t fret, Colonel,” Jayne said, disgustedly, “I reckon they’ll get around to it eventually.” “We just got to keep a positive mental attitude,” reminded Mal. “Remember that we got folk out there lookin’ for us – not a lot, maybe, but they’re smart and motivated.” “Or they evacuated the moment they knew we was snatched,” Jayne added. “Zoe wouldn’t do that. Simon certainly wouldn’t leave his sister behind. Johnny ain’t about to leave us behind. And Kaylee wouldn’t lift the ship ‘till she saw our bones.” “Now ain’t that a comfortin’ thought!” Mal rolled his eyes. “Y’know, Jayne, I was thinkin’ that Inara was the worst person ever to be locked up with. You’re makin’ me reconsider that notion.”

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35th TACTICAL ASSAULT UNIT -22:17

“Warlord, our perimeter is secure,” reported the Major with deference. He hated to disturb the Master while he worked, but there were military details to be reported, and orders to be solicited that would not wait. “The Engine Room is in our hands. I stationed a dozen men there. A technician works even now to repair the damage the bandits did to it, in their ignorance. But we still lack the codes necessary to take control of the ship.” Shan Yu looked up from the table and used his shoulder to wipe a bit of blood off of his nose. His hands were far too stained to do the job. “I am close to discovering this code. One of these men has it, and I will wrest it from him,” he proclaimed. “There are two groups of bandits, apparently – my first subject was most cooperative, if ignorant.” “The one with the mouth?” the Major asked, wryly. “Yes . . . well, he had one when he was brought to me. The rest of it is in that basin, over there – quite a small tongue for a man who used it so much. He said that there were two groups, one made of bandits from the former Imperial regime, and one made of bounty hunters who were pursuing them. The former group had the code word, while the latter group controlled the Engine Room. So it is one of the Imperial commandos who holds the key. Don’t you, Mr. Fao?” A faint, agonized groan was the victim’s only reply. “Yes, Mr. Fao insists that he doesn’t have it. But he did reveal to me the identity of the Imperial bandit leaders. They are the descendents of Lei Fong Wu. Indeed, a young prince of that line was with them in the vehicle bay, and somehow escaped.” “Lei Fong Wu?” the Major asked, intrigued. “The very same. A young man named Lei Chin Yi is the leader of this group. He is at large, and I don’t doubt that he will seek to free his friends – the Leis have always had a high degree of loyalty. If anyone has the code, he does. I want you to take a squad and hunt him down. Bring him to me alive, and I will have this code within that hour.” “Yes, Warlord,” the Major said, with only a moment of hesitation. Of course the Master caught it, and looked up at him sharply. “Do you have a problem with executing this order, Major?” Shan Yu asked as he picked up a rubber mallet and tested its weight. It still had some of Goetz’s blood on it. “No, Warlord! It shall be done.” “Very good. Now, this man, Major, says he is Sgt. Fao Lin Tai, that he was born on T’ien, is married, and is the last of his line. He has no children yet, which is a pity. Children are a blessing, Sgt. Fao.” He selected a knife from the tray beside him and chose a pair of scissors with which to cut open Fao’s pantleg. “And if you are the last of your line, well, I’d say that the capacity to have children is a precious commodity, wouldn’t you agree?” “I am not afraid to die!” the man said, bravely. His face was ashen. “Oh, Sgt. Fao, I said nothing about death. I despise death. I fight death. It robs me of my pleasure, you see, and provides an all-to-easily release to my subjects. No, Sgt. Fao,” Shan Yu said as he stripped the pantleg away and exposed the groin of the wriggling commando, “No, I do not promise you death. That would be far too easy for a brave soldier such as yourself. You are prepared for death, after all. No,” Shan Yu said, selecting a metal pipe about ¾” wide, “death would be a far, far easier burden to bear. I promise you a long, painful, debilitating life devoid of the comfort of offspring.” He placed one end of the pipe over one of the writhing man’s testicles. “I want you to tell me the code, Sgt. Fao. If you do, you may return to your comrades and await my pleasure. If you do not, then I will seek to control you genetic destiny by hammering one of your testicles into mush. Then I will ask you again, and if you do not reply truthfully, I will render similar assistance to the other. Now, for the last time: what is the code for that door?” “I swear, I do not know it! Please! No more!” Fao begged. “You are really willing to discard the possibility of offspring so lightly?” inquired Shan Yu. “I do not know the code! I—” The sentence devolved into a howling, agonizing shriek of pain as Shan Yu brought the hammer decisively down on Fao’s testicle, turning the once-useful organ into a flattened ring of ruined tissue. Fao vomited and soiled himself. Shan Yu didn’t seem to notice. The Master sighed. “I suppose he may be telling the truth. Very well, then, if you do not, who else – besides young Prince Chin Yi – holds this information?” It took another several moments and a few more thinly-veiled threats for Fao to choke out the names of Colonel Campbell and Captain Reynolds. When he had done so, Shan Yu had the guard take the half-ruined man back to the improvised holding cell. It was always worthwhile to inform prospective subjects what terrors awaited them if they were uncooperative. Shan Yu promised to revisit Fao’s case again before he left, inspiring a new round of pitiful sobbing in the man. Shan Yu remained unmoved. “Well, what are you waiting for, Major?” the Master said as he wiped the blood and gore off of his hands with the remains of Fao’s pants. “I set you a task: the young Prince, Lei Chin Yi: find him. Capture him, and any with him. Bring him back to me. Remember your duty, Major – you have taken an oath of loyalty to me. I do not suffer those who have betrayed that loyalty lightly.” “It shall be as you command, Warlord,” the Major said with a deep bow. “Likely he retreated back towards the forward section of the ship. I shall go at once. And may the gods have mercy on that ignorant whelp when I find him!” he said visciously, turning on his heel and departing. “That should prove most interesting,” the old dictator murmured, intrigued, as the Mjor left. He surveyed the table that was still dripping with blood, anticipating another long interrogation. Then he sighed. He did so hate working without an audience – what was the use of a perfect technique if there were none to admire it? He then summoned another guard. “Assemble the bulk of the men in the prisoner’s area. Fully armed, lethal and non-lethal weapons. Have someone bring my table and my tools. I think it is time to expand our line of questioning. We need to see what this Colonel Campbell has to say about the code. And this Captain Reynolds – I was to have him back at our other headquarters, but he escaped.” The Tyrant smiled a small, cruel smile. “He shall not have that kind of luck a second time.”