Free Waybound by Cam Baity Page B

speak Bloodword. Clearly, they didn’t know that balvoors had a knack for languages.
    â€œState your business!”
    â€œI was merely on a constitutionary stroll, when I stepped into this shadowed recess to escape the overwhelming torridity.” His words seemed to confuse the guards, so he added, “Rapturous day, but a modicum too hot for me particular penchant.”
    The bald guard looked at the hole in the ore and the exposed sewer pipe within it. “You been digging?”
    Mr. Pynch’s heart valve churned. If the Marquis knocked on that pipe now, they’d be in a whole heap of trouble.
    â€œMercy, no! I found such disarray when I arrived here. Mayhaps a jaislid laborer was attempting to access the roots of this sendrite tower and forgot to cover his exertions.”
    â€œThat pile of fancy clothes yours?”
    Mr. Pynch chuckled. “No mehkie this side of the Shroud would be caught dead in apparel of the human varietal.”
    Baldy’s gaze lingered on Mr. Pynch’s garish green necktie. Then he spied an object sticking out of Mr. Pynch’s pocket—it was the furry thing the Marquis had stolen. Baldy’s eyes bulged.
    â€œLittle thief!” he snarled, snatching the pilfered toupee and slapping it onto his gleaming bald head. The fuming man squinted at Mr. Pynch and snapped his fingers. “ID this one.”
    A glowing handheld scanner was shoved in Mr. Pynch’s face.
    Blip-blip-blip-blip…
    He watched Baldy’s hands move to the magnetic club at his belt—it was a Lodestar, just like the one Mr. Pynch had stolen from Micah, then lost in a lousy bet shortly after.
    Now Mr. Pynch was beginning to feel ill, like he had a viral case of rustgut. He could see no easy way out of this. Was the Covenant watching? Would they come to his rescue? Surely, he would be shot dead in his tracks if he tried to flee.
    And what about the Marquis?
    PING!
    â€œIt’s one of the saboteurs!” Baldy growled.
    The guards drew their rifles. The yawning barrels pressed in so close that Mr. Pynch could smell how recently they had been fired. Fingers hovered over triggers.
    A low groan startled them, followed by an ear-shredding glissando. The electronic thrum faded along with the purple glow that had tinted the area. An eerie silence settled.
    The magnetic barricade of the Foundry compound was down.
    An emergency siren wailed.
    Mr. Pynch didn’t miss a beat. He inflated with a pop, his body expanding so fast that he launched a few feet into the air. The men were flung back, their rifles skittering away.
    Baldy scrambled for his Lodestar, but Mr. Pynch rolled end over end, flattening the bleeder. He deflated, snatched the magnetic club, and fired it. A purple bloom of force hurled the metal-armored men down the alley like stray fluff.
    Mr. Pynch was preparing for a second assault—“hit them when they’re down” was his default brawling philosophy—when he heard three muted knocks. He unscrewed the hatch on the sewer pipe and shielded his delicate nozzle.
    â€œTook yer sweet time down there, didn’t ya?”
    The slime-befouled bundle of naked tubing that was the Marquis emerged, none too pleased. He looked at the trio of groggy guards and blasted up a message.
    Blinkety-blankety-flashy-flick.
    â€œYou most certainly did NOT save me!” blustered Mr. Pynch. “I was handling meself most adequately, thank you very much!”
    The Marquis scraped off handfuls of muck and got dressed.
    â€œThough yer obliteration of the Foundry’s security apparatus will surely satisfy the Covenant’s needs. You have me regards.”
    The Marquis tipped his top hat.
    â€œShall we vamoose?”
    As they raced down the alley, a fireball erupted. Mr. Pynch and the Marquis glanced back over their shoulders to see a gang of Covenant warriors streaming from their hiding places, weapons drawn as they breached the Foundry compound’s