old friend of mine. He’s about as eccentric and conspicuous as we come in the Hyperion and I hate to say it, but he’s just as good-looking as I am. Corbin is a little shorter than me with a bright dyed-blonde crew cut and several ripped band t-shirts under an acid-wash bomber jacket full of patches and chains. He wears thread-worn blue sneakers and baggy, ripped cargo pants. A nose, eyebrow, labret and multiple ear piercings complete his rock star-esque appearance.
Corbin is a good sentiner because he fears interfering – without me to lead him. Life is very much a game to him and for many, many years he has been the same person. He doesn’t have ups or downs, gradual philosophical drifts, or even changes in taste. He is the Corbin I nominated to take my place as Captain of North Gothica when I became the Captain of Central. It’s kind of reassuring.
Corbin’s auxilia is a very talented and powerful crafter named Roger, a darkened granted the rare gift/curse of immortality by the Hyperion long ago. Physically, Roger is the opposite of his sentiner counterpart. He is short and stout with a round midsection but muscular arms and legs. He has thick black facial hair and eyebrows and deep round coals for eyes. From under his wool cap, wavy, black, shoulder length hair emerges, framing a bulbous nose on an otherwise honest and jovial face. While sometimes lost in a reflective state of silence, Roger is for the most part as mischievous and good natured as Corbin.
The elevator doors open and the two familiar figures stand nearby at a cement pillar, waiting. Roger, wearing his standard black wool cap, dark wool, double breasted trench coat, and unlaced combat boots speaks from within a rim of scruffy facial hair, “What, too cheap to meet in a decent coffee shop?”
I smile. “I was hoping if I left you guys up here long enough you’d boost a new car.”
Corbin lifts a finger, warningly. “Hey, don’t shit on my van. We both know that you just can’t stand to be seen with a couple homeless bums like us.”
Roger strolls over to me and opens his arms for a hug. I feign disgust but he grabs me anyway. I shake Corbin’s hand and pull him into an embrace slapping him on the back a few times. “So what’s happened?” he asks me. “Roger said it was important.”
The smile on my face disappears and in response, they instantly look worried. “Someone is trying to kill me,” I begin but it’s not quite what I wanted to say. Nevertheless I push on, “and it is my suspicion that they are trying to get my secretary and others in my borough as well.”
“Is Nigel okay?” Roger asks, lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag.
I nod, but Corbin is already apprehensive. “You first,” he says obviously having something important to say when I’m done. I recount the tale of the break-in and the battle in the subway, then Nigel’s incident and his findings.
“Six other cyperas?” Roger asks, unnerved.
“That we know of, and that was just in a one night period. I’ll bet my life if we did the rounds today, the number of my guys who were attacked would have grown.”
“Yeah. But by how much?” Roger ponders nervously.
“I don’t want to risk being wrong on this one,” I say and they both nod in agreement.
“We hear you,” Corbin begins. “We were up north visiting…” he hesitates, “…visiting the Anatheas. I thought we were just too close to the Cell – you know how fucked up the woods are up there. Well, something attacked us, something really nasty – you know, kharma-wise . But that fear, I know what you’re talking about.” He recalls the incident as if watching the scene replay before his eyes. After a second, he looks up at me. “What do you think it means?”
“Anyone else in your borough get attacked?” I ask quickly.
“Not that we know of,” Corbin says.
I shake my head, still unable to voice what I really
Corbin is a good sentiner because he fears interfering – without me to lead him. Life is very much a game to him and for many, many years he has been the same person. He doesn’t have ups or downs, gradual philosophical drifts, or even changes in taste. He is the Corbin I nominated to take my place as Captain of North Gothica when I became the Captain of Central. It’s kind of reassuring.
Corbin’s auxilia is a very talented and powerful crafter named Roger, a darkened granted the rare gift/curse of immortality by the Hyperion long ago. Physically, Roger is the opposite of his sentiner counterpart. He is short and stout with a round midsection but muscular arms and legs. He has thick black facial hair and eyebrows and deep round coals for eyes. From under his wool cap, wavy, black, shoulder length hair emerges, framing a bulbous nose on an otherwise honest and jovial face. While sometimes lost in a reflective state of silence, Roger is for the most part as mischievous and good natured as Corbin.
The elevator doors open and the two familiar figures stand nearby at a cement pillar, waiting. Roger, wearing his standard black wool cap, dark wool, double breasted trench coat, and unlaced combat boots speaks from within a rim of scruffy facial hair, “What, too cheap to meet in a decent coffee shop?”
I smile. “I was hoping if I left you guys up here long enough you’d boost a new car.”
Corbin lifts a finger, warningly. “Hey, don’t shit on my van. We both know that you just can’t stand to be seen with a couple homeless bums like us.”
Roger strolls over to me and opens his arms for a hug. I feign disgust but he grabs me anyway. I shake Corbin’s hand and pull him into an embrace slapping him on the back a few times. “So what’s happened?” he asks me. “Roger said it was important.”
The smile on my face disappears and in response, they instantly look worried. “Someone is trying to kill me,” I begin but it’s not quite what I wanted to say. Nevertheless I push on, “and it is my suspicion that they are trying to get my secretary and others in my borough as well.”
“Is Nigel okay?” Roger asks, lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag.
I nod, but Corbin is already apprehensive. “You first,” he says obviously having something important to say when I’m done. I recount the tale of the break-in and the battle in the subway, then Nigel’s incident and his findings.
“Six other cyperas?” Roger asks, unnerved.
“That we know of, and that was just in a one night period. I’ll bet my life if we did the rounds today, the number of my guys who were attacked would have grown.”
“Yeah. But by how much?” Roger ponders nervously.
“I don’t want to risk being wrong on this one,” I say and they both nod in agreement.
“We hear you,” Corbin begins. “We were up north visiting…” he hesitates, “…visiting the Anatheas. I thought we were just too close to the Cell – you know how fucked up the woods are up there. Well, something attacked us, something really nasty – you know, kharma-wise . But that fear, I know what you’re talking about.” He recalls the incident as if watching the scene replay before his eyes. After a second, he looks up at me. “What do you think it means?”
“Anyone else in your borough get attacked?” I ask quickly.
“Not that we know of,” Corbin says.
I shake my head, still unable to voice what I really
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