The Fiercest Craving Page 8

  "Have my disinfectant and blood infusion ready!" Hathren hollered.

  "Roger that."

  A device that looked like some kind of air hose dropped from the ceiling, and Hathren pushed a trigger on it, spraying a fine mist throughout the incision area.

  "Are we through to the aorta?"

  "Yes sir, we're administering 2.5 ccs per second of A positive."

  "Good."

  Hathren proceeded to stitch up the incision he made manually.

  "How are the readings now?"

  "Steadily rising sir. We're at forty over twenty-four and nineteen beats per second."

  Hathren brushed his sweaty forehead. "Thank heaven."

  3:11 p.m.

  Hathren could barely hear the voice of his fellow surgeon over the blaring television.

  "Quite a save you made there, miracle man."

  "Can't do it without the team," Hathren responded flatly, having said the exact same phrase several times in the past.

  They turned their attention back to the television, and all the calm Hathren had gathered over the half-hour following the operation disappeared over the span of a single sentence: "We have just received word that Brisbane, capital of the Intergalactic Federation, is now in a state of coupe d' etat."

  "The fuck! First Serann's attempted assassination and now this?"

  "I don't know what to think anymore, Siegfried," Hathren murmured, his face buried in his hands.

  "We have just received word that Chancellor Terry has been shot!" a quavering voice echoed loudly.

  The television depicted yet another scene of chaos, this time at the Capitol Building. This one, however, was of a far greater magnitude. As many as thrice the number of people at the courthouse screamed and fled for their lives from the large, marble domed building. Many failed to flee further than the steps leading toward the establishment and instead collapsed in pools of red by the dozens.

  "We cannot keep our employees in danger any longer! We must end this broadcast!"

  The display on the television immediately switched from live scene coverage back to the station. The anchorman could hardly keep his composure and seemed in a state of mental disarray. Hathren had known him for several years from the very same hospital break room. John Ashton normally possessed the cool, unwavering confidence that anyone in the communications field would envy having. His blue eyes, well-combed brown hair and overall demeanor seemed entrancing even to Hathren, and he undoubtedly also drew much attention from any woman who set eyes upon him. Yet, now he couldn't contain himself. He appeared beside himself with fear.

  "We... now... bring you this... public... service... announcement."

  Unable to manage longer, he passed out. The display changed to a blank blue screen, across which white words appeared in a left to right marquee.

  "All Brisbane citizens are strongly advised to enter a state of lockdown. Lock all doors and windows and barricade all entrances with any available furniture or movable appliances, such as refrigerators. Wait until approached by a member of the police force before taking any further action. The Intergalactic Federal Government appreciates your cooperation."

  Hathren had only read the entire announcement once before the television was switched off against his will. The lights in the entire area quickly followed suit. The customary hum given off by generators and high voltage equipment ceased as well. Frantic footsteps and shouts were heard outside the break room soon afterward. Hathren cautiously stepped outside and witnessed the barricading of the entire hospital: a chaotic, widespread transportation of manpower and carts loaded with sandbags. In all, there were eight possible entrances Hathren knew of, including one on the roof of the colossal ten-storey building.

  A surgeon Hathren didn't recognize addressed him, "What're you waiting for? We could use some help barricading the roof."

  The idea seemed unquestionably strategic.

  Hathren followed him along with a band of others in nurse outfits up the stairs toward the rooftop. Hathren's common sense finally kicked in as he reached the top floor, panting heavily, "Don't you think I'm better off tending-"

  Two of the men suddenly seized him and forced him across the threshold onto the floor of the rooftop. Fright gripped Hathren and he struggled to flee, only to be subdued by an excruciatingly painful kick to the crotch. The men seized the moment to bind and gag him.

  The most formidable of the thugs, apparently their leader, grabbed Hathren by his front collar and raised his limp body to eye level.

  "So, this is what we get as our end of the pact?"

  "P-pact?"

  "As I thought gentlemen," the leader started in a disappointed but neutral tone. "THE FUCKER FORGOT HIS FUCKING PACT!"

  With one quick extension of his arm, the thug thrust Hathren away ten feet, causing Hathren to collide with the stone wall of the rooftop portcullis. Hathren couldn't decide which pain was greater: that resulting from the collision of his head with the wall or the lingering pain in his crotch. I'd rather be out cold, he thought. No, dead.

  The leader grinned at Hathren menacingly, revealing several black, yellowed and missing teeth.

  "Oh no, we don't want you dead, Hathren," he cackled, casting Hathren a leer that made Hathren believe he could read his mind. "Take him in boys. Our man has some catching up to do."

  B2 Chapter 2

  II

  1:08 p.m.

  In the painful trip from the hospital rooftop to some desolate, isolated location, Hathren could not remember any point in his life when he'd sworn to uphold a pact. Perhaps, he thought, when he was a child. But how could he have even grasped such a concept at that time? And even if he did, how could he possibly remember it in midst of life's flow?

  Hathren heard the whirring sound of helicopter blades growing softer and felt their wind force weakening. A sharp prod in his lower back incited him to walk forward, and so he did with his head covered by a cloth bag. The thugs apparently did not take the precaution of putting handcuffs on him.

  "Interrogation chamber for you, runt."

  The voice sounded overly gruff, unlike anything Hathren had heard before. He hazily recalled the thug leader's tone of voice and concluded that it too seemed quite gruff.

  The walk ensued for several minutes before the leader halted and removed the cloth bag from Hathren's head. He beckoned Hathren into a chamber beneath the surface of the ground, which appeared to be nothing more than dirt and gravel. Hathren followed him submissively and felt the cold air suck away his warmth as darkness closed on him from above.

  "No escaping from here, runt; you're our hostage now."

  Hathren's feet left the stairs after about a minute of descent.

  "Stand back," the leader ordered.

  Hathren watched as he rubbed away some dust from a wall forming a dead end at the staircase and peered into a hole that he revealed. At once, the wall shook and parted to the right, creating an entrance into a vast underground base.

  "Welcome home, boys. Time for your interrogation, runt."

  Hathren followed him into the base. The leader opened a door on the far left wall of the base and allowed Hathren to enter the room by his own will. He let go of the door, which swung shut behind him.

  "Runt."

  "Will you stop call-"

  "So you don't remember after all."

  "I beg your pardon? What is it I'm supposed to remember?" Hathren demanded in a frustrated manner.

  "You and I, Runt, we go back longer than you think."

  Hathren had taken a seat in a rusty folding chair and sat with his hands folded on a crude metallic table. The lighting in the room was dim at best and its walls were of a bleak, grayish color. They appeared faded and worn. Hathren kept his peace for thirty seconds, at which point the thug leader continued.

  "Back on Iltenaan, that's what we called you."

  "Iltenaan? The predominantly tribal planet in the Celtanean Solar System? But that planet was given to the Orc-kind in the Settlement of 1002. What w
ould I have been-"

  "Looks like they somehow completely wiped your memory. Thought you'd be useful to them with that brain of yours. That's why we called ya Runt, see? All brains and crap for brawn.

  "You seemed to be the smartest born of our kind in ages. Did them damn sums in your head all the time and read the most cryptic science texts you could find while the rest of us played hooky."

  "Us? Just who do you think I am?"

  "Fuck it man, you really don't remember?"

  He sounded desperate.

  "No, I really have no idea what you're trying to tell me."

  "Then I'll have to show you. Sorry, Runt, this is for your own good."

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a switchblade.

  "Hey! What the hell're yo-"

  "Hold still."

  Before Hathren could blink, the thug had a tight grip on his neck and had pinned him to the wall. With the hand holding the neck, the thug pinched a good amount of skin and slit the portion lying above his fingers. Hathren had expected unbearable pain but surprisingly felt nothing.

  The thug retracted the blade and withdrew.

  "If you don't think that's funny, I'll let you see for yourself, but I think by now you should already know what you are."

  Hathren placed a finger in the slit created by the knife and felt a second skin. It seemed mildly rough to the touch. He fingered the outer skin and felt it begin to pull away with the smallest of tugs. Within half a minute-the time it would normally take him to peel an orange with his deft hands-Hathren revealed his true identity.

  The thug smirked, "You ain't changed a bit, Runt. Still got that priceless look on your face."

  Hathren picked up the blade, which the thug had left on the table, and observed his visage one small detail at a time in the reflective face. As he did so, long lost memories began to flood his mind. He pictured the vast fields, tropical landscape and rudimentary dwellings of his home planet of Iltenaan. He remembered being among a gang of friends who always seemed to mock him for not engaging in physical activity. And one of those friends was the very man standing before him.

  Hathren looked up and stolidly made eye contact with the other half-orc. "Glad to be back in the gang, Rem."

  "All has become clear, hasn't it? Those bastards didn't want a half-orc being a productive member of society, so they had no choice but to dress you up, didn't they?"

  "The part of me wanting to be human denied everything I guess," Hathren sighed.

  "Come now, I'm sure the rest of the gang will be glad to see you've awakened."

  "Wait. About that pact..."

  "What about?"

  "We made a promise to each other to uphold the honor of our race?"

  "You're halfway there, Runt. Your atonement begins tomorrow."

  Hathren failed to hold back a grin almost twice as wide as he would have previously managed. "I look forward to it."

  8:05 a.m.

  Hathren felt the cold steel table sap the warmth from his hand through the thin cloth-like material. His mind could not put a finger on how to describe it. Soft but not too soft. Thin but not too thin. His thoughts raced back to the previous day and suddenly it became clear.

  Rem interrupted Hathren's thoughts. "Good shit ain't it? Picked it up from that hospital you work at."

  Hathren chuckled. "I didn't just work there. I practically lived there. You're not given much of a choice as the Head of Surgery."

  "Well I hope you can make the transition from traumatic to cosmetic. Or at least get real damn good in the latter.

  "Our first load of subjects will be coming soon from Brisbane's Euthanizing Center. Their lives we're thankfully spared when euthanizing had to be halted in the midst of the chaos we created."

  "How do so many end up there?"

  "Orc raping that occurs on the wrong side of the tracks in most places. Most victims are too traumatized to get an abortion. With their government in such a state, the lack of defense against such incidents is only going to get worse. But I guess there's no other way. The bastards will get what they deserved."

  Hathren impulsively banged his fists on the table, creating a small tear in the material. "But that's not right! Why do innocent civilians have to pay for crimes committed by their government? Why did you have to kill so many just to create chaos? Don't we have just as much of their blood as we do orc?"

  In utter rage, Hathren pushed the table over, causing the roll of material to fall and unravel on the floor. He panted heavily, attempting to regain his composure but to no avail.

  "You really do got the orc in ya, Runt," Rem said passively. "Only we can have such a short fuse."

  Hathren said nothing and continued to breathe fiercely, his arm outstretched to the nearest dull gray wall. Rem began speaking again but this time with a tone and sophistication unlike Hathren had ever heard from him before.

  "You must understand, however, that we don't kill blindly like the pure versions of our kind. We possess a level of sentience that our counterparts can never attain."

  Rem drew in a deep breath. "I think now is the time to inform you of everything that will transpire in the next few days. That man you saved, one of the last remaining public figures in the Intergalactic Federal Government, will become an absolute leader and the IFG will then be known as the Intergalactic Imperial Sovereignty. His very first order will be to capture and execute or enslave all members of any race with orc blood. As I intend, he will have a search party find our hideout for the purpose of getting you back to work for him. By that time, the bulk of us will have evacuated but, under the guise of holding you hostage, I will die."

  Hathren could feel his heart suddenly stop and abruptly start again. "H-how the h-hell do you know all this?"

  Rem placed his hand on Hathren's shoulder. "You were the smart kid, Runt. And probably no surprise you still are. You'll figure it out eventually."

  "And why do you have to die? What are the rest of us to do without your guidance?"

  "It's already been planned out. You will work for him as his senior manager of medicine and on the side, the gang will be sending in your work that you will do for your atonement. As for my death, I need to make it convincing that we wouldn't give you up without a fight. They might find it too fishy if they could just rescue you with no strings attached. Speaking of which..."

  Rem abruptly left the room and arrived shortly afterward holding the artificial outer skin Hathren had stripped from his face the previous day.

  "You will need to wear this for obvious reasons. I can arrange to have this put on for you with a catch that will allow you to strip it easily once you believe the time is right to reveal yourself again."

  "I appreciate that."

  The buzzing noise of the main hangar hatch opening filled the room.

  "Looks like the subjects are here. For now, you can practice with them I guess."

  9:21 a.m.

  To a practiced surgeon seasoned with the sewing of wounds, the art of identity concealment could not be easier. The process was simple: put the subject on tranquilimine, find the areas on each limb and the torso with the thickest skin, and use those points as anchors for the synthetic skin. The thin cloth was not only very malleable but also it retained any crease, fold or shaping that Hathren desired. Furthermore, the looseness of half-orc skin in most areas made it easy to secure the framework in many places.

  Hathren finished stitching in the next two hours and finished the job by applying a blow dryer which caused the synthetic skin to shrink taut to the baby's form. He prospected his work and was disappointed to find that the stitches he created were visible to the naked eye under the intense light of the surgical room, albeit barely. Then again, he remembered that the specific thread he used would dissolve in water overtime and henceforth leave no visible traces. Upon further prospecting, Hathren felt truly astounded at what he had accomplished. The subject pre-surgery had skin that showed signs of dull gray pigment and bodily hair growth that would be considered
several years premature for a normal human child. Upon applying the milk-white veil, Hathren saw all such signs of an alien race disappear before his very eyes. Though he detested the fact that for most of his life he hadn't known his true identity, he felt somewhat privileged to be among the first to benefit from this groundbreaking procedure. Nothing, however, had felt more rewarding to him in his entire life than performing the procedure himself and allowing a member of his shunned race to become an equal of all others in society. This time, he mused, it is of my own will, not that of those bureaucratic bastards.