“You’re sure what it was that you observed?” Marc Sarzynski asked again, scowling heavily at the men of his gang, arrayed below him in the space that he thought of as his throne room.
It had been Cinnra’s personal aerie, once upon a time. Marc liked the vaulted ceilings above him, as well as the stone slabs stepping down from where he had put his throne. Each was about ten yards across by twenty wide, and the whole room was a series of steps. The only change he had made was to have a couple of Yuudixtl add stair steps everywhere, so all the non-gliders could get around here easily, and not just the Warreth.
He was recruiting more, these days, and going outside the insular Warreth clans that had been the basis of Cinnra’s power. The gang would need to feel more comfortable in here.
Marc scanned the mob of aliens a level below him, nearly a hundred faces from strange nightmares staring back. Five months ago, he had never even imagined that aliens existed. And now he had at least twelve species actively serving him.
The Warreth male at the center flattened his headcrest some as he spoke, an unconscious reflex that Marc had finally learned was the equivalent of a dog tucking his tail under. Body language of submission. It was good, being in charge. Things would get done around here, finally.
“The generators had all started running at once, so I went into the lab to see what was going on,” Deoar said, somehow pitching his voice loud while not sounding threatening.
The survivors of the takeover had all learned that lesson.
“When I got there, Xiomber and Morty had powered up the wormhole generator and were pulling someone through,” the birdman continued.
The creature reminded Marc of a Stellar Jay, with blue and black feathers, even though his beak was nowhere near as long as it would have been. Deoar’s was shorter, almost petite. Just enough to crack walnuts, rather than dipping into flowers.
“So somebody came through the first tube,” Deoar said. “Just as I entered the room. Then they bounced him out using a second tube and jumped in right after him. About that moment, the console overloaded and I had to concentrate on putting out the fires, but I know what I saw.”
“Describe it again,” Marc said in a voice that couldn’t help but be threatening. His nerves were shot this morning. It was not possible, what Deoar had described.
“Before I met you, boss, I would have said a short Vanir,” the birdman continued. “But I’m pretty sure it was a human. Same build, but not as tall. About what you used to be, a little taller than me. Golden hair.”
“Yes, yes,” Marc said. “The clothing. What was he wearing.”
“Garnet jacket with gold letters on a black logo and gold shoulder pieces,” Deoar replied. “Three white rings around the logo on the chest. White pants. Black boots.”
“And golden hair?” Marc confirmed.
“You got it, boss.”
Marc slammed one first down onto the armrest of the new throne but otherwise contained his emotions. Fear was a useful thing, in small doses. It would not do to completely frighten his people out of their wits.
“Ladies and gentleman, I should be possessed of an anger for the very gods, right now,” he pronounced, watching the five score aliens below him recoil half a step at the thought, anyway. Yes, fear of god was a thing they understood. “And I will exercise that rage on those two little traitors when we find them. Xiomber and Morty are to be killed, without mercy. But today is also our lucky day. They’ve managed to locate my worst enemy and actually bring to me, here in the Accord of Souls. The human Deoar has described is a Field Agent of the Earth Force Sky Patrol. For humans, the equivalent of the Vanir Constabulary, with just about as much sense of humor. That human is most likely Gareth St. John Dankworth.”
Marc rose from his throne and began to pace. He had the entire top platform to himself. Skylights overhead cast him in alternate spotlights and shadows as he moved.
“They will probably not have taken him to Yuudixtl, but alert our agents there anyway,” Marc commanded. “Instead, we need to be on the lookout for another human loose in Accord space. Perhaps we should alert the authorities, as well.”
Marc picked out a Nari male off to one side. Unlike most of the gang, Zorge was older, well into Nari middle-age, with white fur coming in along the edges of the orange and gray stripes. And he had actively chosen a life of crime, rather than being forced into it by circumstances.
If the cat-man had possessed any greater ambitions in life, Marc probably would have had to kill him when he first took over, but Zorge was content working as a spy, maneuvering in the shadows. All he wanted to do was run his own little network of informants. It was good.
“Pass an anonymous tip to the Vanir,” Marc ordered the old cat. “Let them know that there is a human loose in Accord space. Emphasize the golden hair, though.”
That got a laugh as Marc ran a hand back through his own pitch-black curls. In that, he looked much more like a typical Vanir, darker of skin and hair than Dankworth. And a foot taller, these days. If the so-called, self-appointed, Custodians of Order weren’t so damned tall, a human like Gareth could have easily passed himself off as one, but the women alone were six and a half feet tall, and the men usually seven. Freaking giants.
Like Maximus was now.
Morty and Xiomber had been in the process of researching how to rebuild him again, even better than the Vanir he appeared to be. He already had the perfect disguise, so perhaps their betrayal now was in his best interests. Internally, Marc shuddered at the thought of what those two damnable, lizard scientists might have done to him, had he put himself under their care for greater transformation when they were intent on duplicity.
The room had fallen silent at his introspective pacing. They knew better than to interrupt, but no new genius insight bubbled up right now. He was still getting used to having an IQ of two hundred by human standards.
“Find him,” Marc growled to his mob. “Bring him to me.”