Cinnabar by Edward Bryant

Author:Edward Bryant [Bryant, Edward]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Unknown
Publisher: ReAnimus Press
Published: 2013-01-09T05:00:00+00:00

“Vince! There are men—they want to kill us.”

“Mmh? Dream... Lemme sleep.” Submerged in the furs, he drifted in and out of the dream.

“Vince, wake up.” She shook him urgently. Then she cried out in pain and fell away from him.

He jerked awake, still hearing the cries of the barbarians. “Tourmaline—”

She crawled back into his field of vision, face bloody, holding a jagged piece of stone half the size of her fist. “They hurt me,” she said wonderingly. She leaned over Vince, staring. Blood dripped from her nose to his cheek. “They’ll kill us.”

“And well you deserve it,” said an angry voice.

Vince turned and saw three men standing on the edge of the sleeping platform. All wore the dull blacks of the Neo-Creelists. Each was armed: the first clutched a metal bludgeon, the second held a stiletto with a long blade like a needle, and the third had a pouch filled with stones slung from his waist. The third man looked disgusted and tossed a desultory stone. It struck Tourmaline in the shoulder; she recoiled, but did not cry out.

It was the man with the knife who had spoken. “You must know this is not a personal thing,” he said.

The assassin with the bludgeon said, “I always used to catch your shows. I thought you were great.”

The man with the stones looked even more sour. “Can’t we get this over with?”

“You’re all insane,” said Tourmaline. She touched her fingers to the cut above her eye and then inspected the blood. Vince scrambled to his feet.

“It was those filthy propaganda shows you did for the Network,” said the stiletto man.

“Did they harm you?” said Tourmaline.

“Not me. I was already sure of the truth. But I can imagine the effect on more impressionable people.”

“I was only trying to educate—”

“To evil,” said the stiletto man. “Against nature.”

“Nature is healthy when it’s diverse. That’s all I—”

“Trash,” said the bludgeon man. “Sick, perverted trash.”

The three assassins moved apart from one another as they advanced slowly across the platform.

Vince cursed his nakedness. “Get behind me,” he said to Tourmaline. He tried to push her back to what small safety he could offer.

“You’re insane too,” she said. “This is not a historical romance; you can’t save me.”

“I can try.” He stepped in front of her.

“Please,” she said to the assassins. “Don’t do this. I haven’t interfered with your lives.”

The stiletto man said, “You’ve gone against the truth. That’s sufficient.”

The man with the stones said, “Some of the women are grumbling.”

“Don’t kill the boy,” said Tourmaline.

“I expect he’s tainted,” said the stiletto man, as though that settled the issue. “Now let us finish this.”

Vince grabbed up one of the rugs at his feet and threw it over the stiletto man. Arms windmilling, the assassin reeled back. Vince leaped at the bludgeon man on his right. The man held his club before him in a clumsy defense; Vince felt his fist sink into the man’s solar plexus. He knew amazement; never before had he fought. He brought back his fist again, but someone grabbed him from behind—the man with the pouch of stones.

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