Fifty
Myla watched the mighty avatar of Overlord Khalin
Nome tumble to the deck and lay quivering, a face designed to show no
expression now filled with horror. Something mechanical disengaged from
the wall and approached in the dim light, humming ominously. It was not
Boris. Boris was with Gorlon Hague. This was a new machine.
Grapples unfolded. Sensors extended, reaching for
her, tasting the biochemical essence of her and determining the level of
danger she posed to its master. Alarms sounded in the corridors beyond
the Overlord's chamber.
"Please," she whispered with her new and unfamiliar
voice. Her entire existence was filled with intense, but unfamiliar
physical sensations. She hurt, and she hungered, and anxiety gnawed at
her like scavengers feeding on bare flesh.
She stank.
She had wet herself.
She had scuffed and scratched her arms and legs and
had seen her own red blood for the first time in her life.
She felt pain, and deep, powerful desires and
passions stirred to life by her simmering panic.
"Help me," she said to the machine. "Khalin Nome
would want you to help me. Contact Jeremy, or even Executor General
Gorlon Hague, or Boris, or Dikki. Somebody. Tell them it's me. It's
Myla. I command you. I beg of you.
"Help me!"
