This chapter is shorter than usual, but I felt that it needed to stand on its own. It is a very dark chapter, and may be disturbing to some. You have been warned.

Chapter 1.3

It took awhile for the father to study everything needed, but eventually, he was ready. He met with Paul Robson and Fredrik Freeman in Rome, and they took a craft into the Sahara Desert. About at the center of the expanse of sand was the ‘home’ of Willem Wallace, and they set the craft down by the only way in or out.

Even though Wallace had no way to enter or exit his cell, there was a code that allowed people in. Wallace had a life sentence, which would extend for a very long time, if no one was allowed in or out.

Freeman punched in his code, and the three entered. They met with a guard, immediately. “It’s ready, Sir.”

Freeman couldn’t bring himself to say anything. Instead, he gave a curt nod, and they went down the corridor. Nine more guards were encountered at checkpoints on the way in, until they came to the last one. Wallace was there, gloating as he eyed his brother. He started to mock, but Freeman reached over and snapped off the intercom. He was absolutely not going to enjoy what was coming, but he felt he had to be there. No matter what Wallace had done, they were still brothers. Freeman felt he owed something to him.

“Let Paul into the computer,” Freeman said quietly.

The guard moved, and Robson sat down. He entered some commands, then told the guard, “You may hear something, and it may be alarming. No matter what, you are to do nothing.”

“But what if you are hurt?” the guard asked.

“We won’t be.”

The father pulled a sword out of a pack he had carried in. It was a Katana, and had a very dull edge on it. It would cut with sufficient force, but not deeply.

He nodded at Robson, who pressed a single key. The power in the office went out. Wallace saw the sword and knew he was not likely to live long, so he lunged through the door. The man was waiting for him, and swung the sword up and into the former chancellor’s chest. The breastbone stopped it from penetrating too deeply, but some of the ribs on Wallace’ right side were broken. He tried to take a breath, but the wind was knocked out of him. Robson pushed him back into his cell.

Already the nanites in his body were starting to work. The father saw some tissue starting to granulate throughout the cut. This could take a long time, He thought. So much the better.

Wallace was wrong. He lived a considerably long time. It took forty-eight hours before the old man was satisfied.

Wallace was laying on his bed, his body a mass of bruises and cuts. Throughout the time, his nanites were moving slower and slower. They seemed to be low on power. The old man pulled a scimitar out of his pack, which had contained several instruments he had used on Wallace.

It was not that he enjoyed this, but this sick individual had turned his son into some hybrid, and then used him over and over. The recordings from the palace showed that.

Wallace had answered every question put to him. By this time, he just wanted the old man to end it. He watched as the scimitar came out of the bag. We welcomed it.

There are very few ways to kill a man who is full of nanites whose only function is to keep him alive. Even at the low level of power they were at, they would still swarm to a lethal injury to fix it as quickly as possible.

The man used a hunting knife to cut through the tendons in Wallace’ legs and arms. Then he spread the legs as far apart as he could and swung the scimitar. Surprisingly, Wallace was able to scream as both of his legs were removed from his body. The nanites filled the femoral arteries, then his arms were severed. The old man allowed Wallace to enjoy the pain for several minutes before he swung the sword in the fatal blow. Freeman had left some time ago. He couldn’t stomach what was happening. Even Robson turned away at the end, but he heard the gurgling coming through the severed neck as the body’s reflexes tried to draw in another breath. He turned back, and wished he had not. The mouth was trying to draw in air, as if it was the head of a fish. The man spat on the face, then turned, grabbed a cloth and began to clean all of his equipment. He seemed unconcerned at the dying head, still trying to gulp in air. “Good bye, Willem Wallace,” he spat out. It was the last thing Wallace heard. Ever.