Free Prometheus Road by Bruce Balfour Page A

looking away. “You’re not thinking straight.”
    “We could find a nice place to live,” he said. “In a different village where they don’t know us. It happens.”
    “Only when the gods need to redistribute the village populations to make better use of the land,” she said. “We’d end up living in a cave in the wasteland.”
    “Only for a little while,” he prompted. “Then we’d disguise our identities to be accepted in another town. It can be done. I know people who have done it.”
    She frowned at him in disbelief. “Who?”
    He hesitated, then shook his head. “I shouldn’t say.”
    “I see,” she said, biting her lip. She swallowed, then took a deep breath. “You’d better leave, Tom. I’m worried that you’ll be discovered here. And I’m worried about what will happen to me if they find you here.”
    Tom closed his eyes. “So, that’s it, then? All those dreams we talked about, the things we said to each other, the moments we shared. All gone, just like that?” He snapped his fingers.
    “Certainly not,” she said. “We still have those memories, and I’ll always cherish them. But things have changed.”
    “They sure have,” he said, rolling over to get up on his hands and knees. Using the bedpost for support, he wobbled to his feet. She stood and tried to put her arms around him, but he backed away and turned toward the window. “I hope you’re sure about this, Tempest. You’re making a big mistake, and this is your last chance. If I go out that window, you probably won’t see me again.”
    She almost changed her mind then. She looked out the window at the moonlight, remembering things they’d said to each other in the darkness, and the security she’d felt in his arms, and the way he made her feel.
    Then she heard a thump in the hallway. Someone was up.
    “Go,” she whispered.
    Tom nodded, then slowly climbed out the window. He looked back once, and she wished he hadn’t because of the terrible, hard expression on his face. A door had closed between them. He nodded, then climbed up the ladder into the moonlight.
    Tempest sat down on the floor, buried her face in the heavy blanket, and cried.
     
    THE front door of Memphis Gustafson’s home swung open slowly, as if allowing the entry of a gentle breeze, revealing the silhouette of a specter in the moonlit doorway. The mirrored face reflected Memphis’s own scowling expression as he strode to the door, but that expression changed to alarm when he recognized the black-cloaked figure standing there. Memphis awkwardly dropped to one knee, hampered by his long nightshirt, and bowed his head. “My lord Hermes! How may I assist you at this late hour?”
    “An interesting question,” Hermes hissed. “You assume that I need assistance, implying that you have knowledge of something that might be amiss. This arouses my suspicion. And your posture displays subservience, yet you apparently think that you are in control, an observation that is reinforced by your reluctance to supply me with full and complete information regarding Tom Eliot.”
    Memphis cleared his throat and started to raise his head, then thought better of it. He tried to remain balanced on his knee. “I respectfully disagree, my lord. I have told you everything I know about the Eliot boy and his family. Tom is a troublemaker, just like his father.”
    “Was.”
    Memphis looked up into the cold eyes. “Excuse me?”
    Hermes stepped forward through the doorway, looming over Memphis like the angel of death, or something worse. “Troublemaker like his father was. Ukiah Eliot is no more. A similar fate lies in store for you unless I am convinced that you did not warn or otherwise alarm the Eliots with regard to our nanostrike this evening.”
    “Your nanostrike?” Memphis lurched to his feet and took a step back, his eyes wide. “The Eliot farm?”
    “Is also a memory. Yes.” Hermes sighed in exasperation. “Do you wish me to believe you had no knowledge of