Page 2 of Blackthorn

“I agree,” he replied, surprised at her practicality.

They almost smiled at one another. Almost.

The captain interrupted, “Will this work, Doctor?”

He tore his attention away from the engineer and to the captain. She pointed to the tablet, meaning his plan to introduce a genetic mutation to all four thousand sleeping passengers.

“The simulations say yes, but complications are unpredictable. I will start with a small group of subjects. If it is successful, the therapy can be administered to all the passengers before they wake.”

“It’s completely unethical to administer this type of gene therapy on patients without their consent,” the captain said. “Find another way.”

Radcliffe frowned. “That clashes with the previous orders you issued. You wanted a solution. I have a solution.”

“You have a year. Find another way.”

Ethics. Moral correctness.

Radcliffe marched back to his lab, clutching the tablet.

It could be argued that it was more unethical to do nothing and let people suffer horribly and die from radiation poisoning. The mutations could have unforeseen consequences. Some would die before they woke up. That was inevitable and a reasonable price to pay if it meant the survival of the entire colony.

He never understood how people agonized over the so-called philosophical dilemma problems. Save one person at the expense of a larger group? Save the group even if it meant the individual perished? What is the moral and ethical choice?

Easy. One life to save many? Who even thought it was a dilemma? Sacrifices had to be made. Radcliffe knew this.

Captain Beckford did not wake him early to administer potassium iodide pills and wring his hands. That was no solution. The captain wanted him to make the unpleasant, necessary decisions. He understood.

Fortunately, he was a man never bothered by ethics.

Draven

West Lands

The Aerie

211 Years After Founding

The beast and his companion left at sunrise.

Draven watched from a tower window as they left his stronghold until they became dark smudges against the mountain. Eventually, they vanished in the distance.

The morning sun warmed his skin. The light did not harm Draven as it once had. Call it one of the few benefits of old age.

This morning felt significant, full of potential, like something could actually change. He had lived long enough to appreciate that true change happened rarely. He savored the anticipation.

The child was one of the Marechal hunters, come to reclaim his family’s heirloom. Draven opened his home to the travelers—the Marechal lad and the newly transformed beast with his tenuous anchor—and listened to the child’s plea. It was little more than begging, asking for the return of the imbued sword with nothing to offer in exchange.

Imagine Draven’s surprise that the foolish, danger-seeking family had not driven themselves into extinction. He had no need for the imbued sword, but he was not inclined to give away his treasure.

Not when he paid such a heavy price to capture it.

“This sword took my companion,” he said. “Find me a bride, and Blackthorn is yours. It is a fair price.”

More than fair. A century had passed since the last Marechal hunter tried to end his life on the grounds that Draven was a monster and abomination.

He had a condition that necessitated certain dietary requirements. While many found the consumption of blood unsavory, he had plenty of willing associates who would exchange a pint of blood for food and shelter. It was a fair trade. They were free to leave at any time. Draven was not so crude as to keep his…associates…chained in the basement. He hadn’t done that for nearly a century.

His food was not the issue. He had a steady supply and had learned how to gather the nutrients his body needed due to the Nexus mutation without bleeding a person dry.

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