Birthright

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

The back door of the truck opened, letting in a rush of bright summer light. He squinted at a line of Meta hovcars and trucks, and weathered military buildings, before the three men entered the truck with them and secured blindfolds over their eyes. He resisted when they yanked his arms behind his back, feeling an old spark of fear at the thought of being blind and helpless in a ruthless place like this.

"Keep fighting and we'll rip your arms out of their sockets and be done with it," Craters growled at him.

"Take them in there," an unfamiliar voice said in English.

Someone grabbed his bicep and jerked him to his feet. Breathing hard, Kray stumbled out of the truck and let himself be led across paved road. Play along, he commanded his tense muscles. Play along until he gained enough energy to planeshift them out of this hell.

Alex seemed to be biding her time, too. Patience and discipline were the foundations of Meta teachings. Battles were sometimes sacrificed to win the war. And in their case, winning the war meant making it out of here with both of their lives. He hoped she understood that.

You're just going to have to stick around.

There were voices around them. Not too close, but farther in the distance, as if there was a bustle of activity going on. He strained his ears to hear their words, hoping to find out more about where they were exactly, but it was hopeless. The Meta station closest to the Hudson River was in the New York metropolis, but they'd traveled for hours in the truck. They could have gone in any direction and to any city.

Kray knew the moment they were taken indoors. The pinkish tinge of the world beyond his eyelids turned pure black. They were also now walking linoleum or marble, judging by the click-clack of shoes as their captives escorted them. And the air smelled different in here. It smelled like disinfectant and bleach. Sterile instead of the dirt-ridden world of the Wasteland.

Rousseau and someone else were talking in English. He could hear their words now.

". . . unlike anything he could've hoped for," Rousseau was saying. "Tell him we're going to need twice the supplies for the next six months."

"Don't get greedy now, Rousseau," the man said in the smooth and cultured accent of someone clearly raised in the Mainland. His voice was strangely muffled, as if it were coming from a tube. "You agreed on three months."

"That's before I knew how precious this cargo is." Rousseau laughed heartily. "I'm a businessman. I can tell that this one means a lot to your boss. Why wouldn't I want to get my worth for her?"

"You're not a businessman," the Meta said icily, disdain thick in his voice. "You're a crook."

"Our here, they're one and the same, my friend."

A door clanged open and Kray nearly tripped down a flight of stairs when he placed his foot forward and couldn't find solid ground. The person escorting him hauled him back up before he fell while at the same time shoving him forward to make it clear he wasn't being helpful.

"You realize where you are, don't you?" the man, probably a Meta, was saying to Rousseau.

"I'm standing in a pit of vipers, yes, but it's a good thing these particular vipers have been trained to discriminate before they bite."

"You're full of yourself as usual."

"Which is why your boss deals with me and not one of the many useless gangs littering the Wasteland."

"Wait in here," the Meta barked when they walked through another door. "I will let him know about your latest amendment to the agreement."

"Arrogant abomination," Rousseau muttered in Aldean a few seconds later.