Star Wars - The Syrox Redemption by Joe Schreiber

Author:Joe Schreiber [Schreiber, Joe]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2014-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Waleed Nagma wasn’t matched to fight that day, or the day after that, or the weeks to come. Every so often, I saw him lingering around the mess hall or the central pavilion where the halls of the Hive came together like spokes in a great wheel, where the cons milled around listlessly throughout the day, serving out their sentences and waiting to get matched. He never approached me or tried to make contact, but I could tell from looking at him that the thing he’d told me about — the Syrox, the thing he called the Wolf Worm — was still incubating inside him. His belly looked enormous, as if it were about to burst.

Then one day I was heading back to my cell for the night when a guard named Voystock came up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder.

“Zero?”

I stopped and looked around, and he waved me forward, back down the way I’d come. “Got a message for you. This way.”

“Where are we going?”

He didn’t answer, and I didn’t really expect him to. We weren’t heading for any of the cell blocks, but lower, following a narrow stairway to the abandoned manufacturing area that the cons called Nightside. Rounding a corner, Voystock swung open the broken hatchway and nodded me into the flat, darkened space beyond it. After a moment of standing there, letting my eyes adjust, I sensed something curled in the corner, fifteen meters away, moving in the shadows.

“Zero,” a voice croaked.

The voice froze me. It was a raspy, almost incoherent whisper, so heavy with pain that I almost couldn’t recognize it. “Nagma?”

“Don’t come any closer,” the voice said, and there was something clotted about the words, as if they were forcing their way through a thick obstruction. “It’s coming up now. It’s almost —”

The words broke off. I tried to step back, but my feet felt nailed to the spot. When the thing in the corner shifted slightly into a rectangle of light from the hatchway, I saw what I hadn’t been able to make out before — or as much of it as I could stand to see, anyway. Enough to last me for the rest of my life.

Waleed Nagma was sprawled on his side, curled into a desperate, fetal clutch, with his cheek pressed against the durasteel floor. He was convulsing wildly. His eyes were pinched shut, but his mouth was stretched open so wide that I thought his jaw had dislocated.

Something was coming out of his mouth.

At first I thought it was his tongue. Except it was white. And huge. Ropey. And then I saw it plainly, slithering into view, slow and pale and thick and I knew what it was.

The Worm.

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