Free Trapped by Alex Wheeler Page A

crooked tombstones. At the edge of an old graveyard, weeds spouting between the mounds of dirt.
    Trever Flume.
    Clive Flax.
    Astri Divinian.
    They didn’t share a name, but the epitaphs— loving brother, loving mother, loving father —made it clear they were a family. Love. It put a bad taste in his mouth.
    There was something about the last name Divinian. Something familiar. Could it mean he was on the right track? X-7 stared at the graves, trying to feel something. “My parents,” he said aloud, testing the phrase on his tongue. It felt wrong.
    â€œTrever,” he tried next. “My name is Trever.”
    Each of the three graves had “Gone never. Here forever,” the standard Belazuran mourning cry, etched across the top.
    Each was marked by a bouquet of nahtival flowers. The flowers were fresh; someone was tending to these graves.
    X-7 paced quickly to the entrance of the graveyard, where a hunched Belazuran had been hacking at the ground with a rusty shovel. He was still there, now sliding a tombstone into the shallow hole.
    â€œWho’s been here today?” X-7 asked harshly.
    The weary Belazuran looked at him blankly.
    â€œToday!” X-7 shouted. “Someone put fresh flowers on those graves.” He gestured toward the Divinian plots. “Who was it?”
    The man nodded slowly. “That’s right, he did come by today. Didn’t expect him.”
    X-7 grabbed the man’s shoulders and gave him a brutal shake. “Him who, you mudcrutch?”
    â€œThe boy,” the man said in a dreamy voice. “Of course, he’s not a boy anymore, is he? Time’s passing, it is. Slow, fast, it just keeps going. Yesterday we’re a republic, today we’re an empire, tomorrow—”
    â€œThe boy,” X-7 growled.
    â€œA man now,” the Belazuran said. “Thought I wouldn’t recognize him, but I did, didn’t I? Looks just like his mother. Astri was a beauty, that one.”
    So Trever had a brother. There had been a suspicious lack of information about Trever’s family in the files, as if it had been purposefully blotted out. But this was better than a file; this was a living relative, in the flesh. In reach. If the man could focus long enough to spill the details. He’ll tell me what I need, X-7 thought with determination. Even if I have to cut it out of him.
    â€œLucky boy,” the old man said. “Don’t know why he doesn’t spend more time in that house. Not many lucky enough to have an ocean view, not these days.”
    â€œI was just at Flume’s house,” X-7 snapped. “No one’s living there. It’s falling apart.”
    â€œFalling apart?” The man shook his head. “It was fine yesterday, in perfect condition. Perfect condition the day before. Walk past it every day on my way home, I do. Don’t know why they kept it as a summerhouse. If it were my house, I’d live in it year-round, day in, day out, I would. But not them. Two months a year, in and out. Never made much sense to me.”
    â€œWhere is it?” X-7 asked harshly. “Where’s this summerhouse?”
    The grave tender narrowed his eyes, suddenly suspicious. “Why do you want to know?”
    X-7 sighed. Of course the senile Belazuran chose now to come out of his daze. X-7 didn’t have the patience for deception or persuasion. He lashed out with lightning speed, grabbing the man by the neck. Then he squeezed. “Tell me where the house is. Or die.”
    The man gasped, trying desperately to draw in breath. His hands hammered at X-7’s arm, but the blows were as negligible as tesfli piercer bites. “Time’s running out,” X-7 said. “I’m sure I can obtain the information somewhere else—but I won’t be very happy about it.” He squeezed tighter.
    The man’s eyes bulged. He wheezed something inaudible.
    â€œWhat’s that?” X-7 relaxed his