Traitor. Irredeemable traitor.

"Shut up," Churnbower muttered. He clutched the handle of the weapon case tight, as if to choke the nightmare hidden inside.

Having regrets? Too late. I'm in your mind, Churnbower. I CAN SAY WHAT I WANT.

Churnbower stumbled, snatching his bandaged, bloody hand to his head.

That heat in your veins is me. You brought me to life. Can't get me out now.

"Shut up."

A tech approached him. "Director, are you OK?"

"Get back to your station," Churnbower snapped at her. "Or I'll write you up." Her face fell, concern replaced by anger. Other technicians looked over at the sudden outburst with surprise, curiosity.

You've caused a scene! Which of them will tell our Lord what you have done?

Churnbower's wounded hand throbbed. "No more," he moaned. Glyphs squirmed across his field of vision, echoing the hideous markings he had etched across this weapon. He whimpered.

Tithe to me again: Free me. Wield me and I will rid you of those gossiping mouths.

Churnbower ignored the weapon's voice, the waves of anxious nausea. He had to be brave. He stood before the banks of secure bins waiting on a softly humming cart, one of Tex Mechanica's distribution barges loaded with the day's shipments. He placed the weapon case in a bin, closed the lid, and punched in the recipient: Commander Zavala.

Oh well! Start running, traitor.

The cart slid away. The weapon began to laugh.