by Chris Turner
I closed my eyes. Now I shook my head in despair and mumbled a prayer, something I hadn’t done since my youth.
The other bulb at Follee’s side hadn’t hatched. Though maybe such a horror could have saved our asses—if only Follee’s desperate plan had worked.
Maybe we all should have died back in that Skug tomb of the space station…
Mong turned his feral gaze to me huddled under the nav console; his gunmen’s wide-barreled R6s trained at me and Blest.
“I knew,” Mong spoke in a sudden raspy voice, “you’d poke your meddling nose forth sooner or later, Rusco. So here we are, each with our unique purposes, though they be vastly different.”
“So what’s your plan, Mong? Your grand vision?”
“To conquer the habitable worlds, what else?”
“And then?”
“I’ll conquer more. To achieve what no other visionary has done in the history of time. Outdo all the warlord chiefs. Even Julius Caesar, Alexander the Great, and Genghis Khan.”
“I’ve heard of those dumb bozos. Good luck. Seems as if you didn’t study your history. Look at where it got them, holes in the ground.”
“You’re a funny man, Rusco. But a keen sense of humor won’t save your skin, especially in so disparaging a position. I should keep you around—sharpen my wits, trading jokes with you. But I feel the gods have punished you in a far crueler way.” He stared off into space, as if in some trance or other. “Yes, I believe the gods have chosen a much more grievous fate.”
He licked his lips and made a loud smacking sound with his mouth. Blest tried to get up and charge the nearest gunman while Mong was occupied with me. It was a brave but foolish mistake. The gunman twisted and smacked his gun barrel into Blest’s head and sent him flying into the rubble.
Mong trudged over and clicked his tongue at him. “Poor fool.” He shook his head in sad reflection.
Blest moaned in a sprawled heap. Clenching a fist, he shuddered as delirium took him. His eyes rolled back in their sockets.
Mong studied the flap of plant material curled up high on Blest’s leg with new interest. “This creature appears to be an epiphyte of some sort, perhaps a symbiotic lifeform forming a strange and rare bond with its host.” A frown graced his leonine face. “I doubt if Mr. Rusco’s colleague is getting much benefit.”
“It’s a fucking parasite,” sputtered Blest. “Get it off.” He had for a moment drifted out of his delirium.
“Oh, no,” chided Mong, “we mustn’t interfere with Mother Nature. Such singular phenomenon are examples of a reaction to a super-charged environment.”
“You fucks are a real scream,” croaked Blest.
I cautioned Blest, shaking my head. “Watch it, Blest.”
The gunman who’d fired on his comrade made as if to cut off the tapered leaf wrapped around Blest’s shin with his knife, but Mong held him back. “Don’t touch it, you fool. The thing’ll likely attack you. Watch.” He stepped forward, reaching in his leather pouch to bring out a silver vial. He flung a pinch of acid on the curled leaf.
The alien plasma immediately sizzled and a round blotch, like something of a dark eye, widened and glared at the two curious gunmen. Mong nodded. “We will take Mr. Blest back with us to Othwan. He’ll keep Mr. Rusco company.” He sighed. “An interesting creature,” he mused, “but of little utility at this moment.”
He sucked in an expansive breath through his nostrils and studied the charred remains of his colleague now slumped in ignominious death with some charred cricket creature half burrowed in his nostrils. “Take its comrade, Balt—the one intact in the form of a bulb beside that other corpse.” He gazed at Follee and the now lifeless Skug we’d dragged in sprawled at his side. “Be vigilant in its handling. It may decide to eat you for breakfast.”
Balt recoiled. “Sir?”
“The thing exhibits a rare, predatory trait. A hunter that is well worth studying. The thing demonstrates remarkable propensity to protect its habitat, like a she-wolf defending her pups.”
“Are you sure?” Balt lifted his weapon.
“I’m a man of research, Balt, you know that. I study the wilderness and all its mysterious creatures, priding myself on my knowledge of predators. Only on the most evolved of creatures do I model myself.”
Balt nodded, wincing. With a nervous motion, he signaled another minion who had arrived at the scene. The man fetched a glass case and scooped up the intact bulb.
Mong turned blazing eyes back to me. “A waste, Mr. Rusco.” He kicked at the lifeless body of Follee. “I hear you recently disposed of my phaso in most careless a fashion. Alas, a costly error.”
I struggled to bring my hoarse voice to life. “Maybe your Skug friends shouldn’t have blasted my ship and brought the ceiling raining down on our heads.”
“The Skugs, a foolhardy people, will be punished. But there is still the matter of my amalgo—which Captain Baer, sadly, failed to deliver. I fear he is a ‘hole in the ground’, to use your expression.”
“Maybe, how would I know? Should I care? What are these alien gizmos to you, Mong? You’re obsessed with the mere sight of them.”
The Star Lord’s expression grew grave. “To live and breathe air—life is an obsession, Mr. Rusco. Tell me where my amalgo is.”
“It’s not here,” I growled at him. I needed to think, stall for time.
“That is likely true. But it does not answer my question.”
I firmed my lip.
Mong gave a weary sigh. “As you wish, Mr. Rusco, we will settle this the long, hard way.”
Chapter 14
After a time, Mong turned to Balt. “Give the Skugs back their ship. They can clean up this horrid mess.” He gave a negligent flourish. “Tell Lord Raspin of Zuut he will get his 50k yols, minus a 30k damage fee, of course, for his stupid pyrotechnics that destroyed my phaso.”
Balt stirred. “Raspin will be pissed. He delivered up Rusco. How many mutants did he lose down there? A hundred? Two?”
Mong shrugged. “Means nothing to me, Balt. Mutant flesh, what’s it worth?”
“Unwise, lord—to anger such a primitive warlord—we could face a full blown rebellion against us.”
“And what do I care of rebellions? I’ll raise a thousand more recruits this year. These fools destroyed my phaso!” The whites of his eyes flashed red. “If Raspin decides to raise his hand against me, I’ll bomb the shit out of his little hideaways like I do all dissenters. Every Skug rathole will feed the fires of my wrath. He’ll learn to fear the name of Mong to his grave.”
Balt gave a brief nod. “Very well, sir.”
Mong beckoned Balt with a curled finger and strode off the bridge, his furs flapping behind him. He ducked his head under the smoking lintel. Balt grunted and motioned for the other gunmen to haul Blest and me up.
In Mong’s wake, the gunmen dragged us down the hall through the melted hatch whose metal hung in shreds. We marched through the impossibly massive cargo bay then past other men garbed in armor and leather, R6 blasters strapped snug at their side. Steel chains hung from the ceiling from which I saw other ships suspended: captured vessels with similar holes in their sides. Mong stared and strode on; the man seemed to make a habit of trapping ships like flies.
We weaved our way around the impossible maze of ships, out of the cargo bay and down some more halls, with barbaric symbols and panoramas carved on the walls—3D murals of famous ship wars, epic battles, faces of Mong and his lieutenants, warriors of feral disposition in poses of combat. These were a crew of badasses, proud of their achievements. I looked over at Blest. The poor bastard wasn’t responding. His head hung slack in the guard’s arms. Occasionally he’d mumble an incoherent phrase, probably suffering from a concussion.
We passed a glass viewport and I caught glimpses of faraway stars, and the doomed station, a far point dwindling to nothing. My mind whirled in panic, searching for a way out of this mess. There appeared none. We were weaponless, powerless in a warlord’s invinci
ble flagship. I recalled the fareon cannon on its side that could blow holes in planets. The fiercest warlord in the galaxy strode a few feet away in front of us. Impossibly strong. Armed with weird powers. Leader of an invincible fleet of warships hell bent on dominion of all human worlds.
We passed more guards, two now on either side of a U-shaped door. Mong ordered us thrust into an interrogation room, one that looked disturbingly similar to that of stark, grimy quality back on Trellian where I’d lost my hand.
A plain table sat with three chairs to one side. One of those chairs had leather straps on the arm rests. Didn’t surprise me.
They tossed Blest like a sack of potatoes on the floor where he lay dazed and groaning. I looked over at Mong with sullen contempt.
He stood facing the wall where a star map glowed with a simple console and buttons fitted below. His back was to me and gnarled, massive hands knotted behind his rippling back. “Now, Rusco, about that amalgo.”
I sucked in a breath, ignoring the question.
Mong signaled and Balt struck me in the kidney, causing me to buckle over with a gasp. I lashed out with my machine hand, clipping Balt on the hip, prompting a startled yelp. He smacked me again as his cohorts pinned my arms behind my back.
“The thing was on the Bantam,” I gasped. “Your bungling Skugs blew it to shit. You saw it yourself.”
Mong motioned again to his man, Balt. They had an ingenious way of getting a hostile and unwilling participant to talk. One clamp on the left hand, another on the right foot. One man to apply a squeezing force. Balt clicked a remote which opened a drawer in the wall, withdrawing two black squarish devices as ancillary props with prongs and vises and a base not much bigger than my spider. The fastened those devices to both limbs and kicked Blest in the gut as they walked by. They forced me down into that chair. With the screws tightened, those clamps would have a regular GI Joe confessing to stealing money from his momma’s purse or pranks like snitching on a big sis’s sexual theatrics with Jocko the Stud while parents were away.
I babbled more, blurting out nonsense, but pretended as if I were jacked on Myscol. They weren’t buying it.
“An easier question, Mr. Rusco,” said Mong. “Why were you and your crew in The Dim Zone at that abandoned station? Seems a long way to venture out on a pleasure jaunt?”
“We were collecting my ship, Alastar. The Varwol cut out.”
Mong frowned. “That seems improbable.”
“Well, sorry then, for the truth. Maybe I always wanted to tour The Dim Zone.”
Mong nodded, a sigh of amusement on his lips. “I think conventional means would be better, eh Balt?” He gestured and Balt removed the clamps and hooked his thumb around my baby finger.
Snap. My baby finger hung askew, nearly twisted off.
“Aw, fuck you,” I roared. “You fucking ape, baboon, dipshit, fuckbitch bastard—”
“Hush, Mr. Rusco,” chided Mong, shaking his head. “Back to my amalgo. Where? You still have to tell me.”
I shook my head, uttering profanities, spitting insults.
Balt snapped another finger and I howled in pure agony.
“The amalgo!”
Mong sighed. “We will continue to break every bone in your miserable body, Mr. Rusco, until you tell us where that alien tech is. You’re off to a bad start here. Remember, you’re of no value to me without giving information.” He inclined his head to Balt, who grabbed thumb and forefinger for another twist.
“Wait! Hoath,” I yelled. “Go to Hoath.”
Better to get it over with quick. I wasn’t so good at enduring torture—ever since he’d blown off my hand. It kind of sticks in the memory. Cellular memory and all that.
“What about Hoath?”
“That’s where you’ll find your stupid toy.”
The Star Lord’s face twisted in interest. He rubbed his chin. “Hoath…So, it was always there, and you tricked us into believing it was elsewhere.” He breathed. “I might have known. Amazing how a few broken fingers will open a mouth.”
“Set the course for the Tiga system,” he ordered. “And Rusco, you better not be playing games with me, unless you wish to become a paraplegic sipping pablum out of a straw.”
We took a ride to Hoath on Brisis 9. Vowed I’d never visit that shithole city again—at least of my own choice. A walk down memory lane, those shabby warehouses out on the north end of town, wrapped in barbed wire, squalor and neglect. The smelly, scummy, sallow-skied excuse of a planet. The local cops, nothing more than crooked mercs, who gave our five Warhawk team a wide berth. Probably savvy of what Mong was capable of. It didn’t take much to follow the holo-screen broadcasts and see what such a psycho did to uncooperative worlds that resisted his tyranny.
We transferred to one of his smaller Warhawks by shuttle while the other four escorts stayed not far out of range.
“Where exactly?” Mong demanded.
“Some old warehouse near Baer’s.” I grimaced, nursing my mutilated hand.
“Which one? There are many.”
“Some old moldy place, maybe a mile from Baer’s crib.” I shrugged. “I dumped the tech in haste. Memory’s a bit dim.”
“No doubt. Let’s sharpen it up. Tell you what, we’ll visit every rusty warehouse in this section until we find it, or something jogs your memory.”
“I don’t know why you have such a hard on for that crap device—Ever try getting your kicks over a woman?”
Mong nodded and Balt, catching the look, biffed me in the face, sending a stream of blood down my nose. Bloody fuck!
“The amalgos are sacred, Rusco, and I’ll tolerate no disrespect for them.”
There was no point in antagonizing that big lout further. He was going to get his transporter anyway and he knew it. He’d tear apart this universe, killing everyone in it to get it. I was already a dead man. Soon as I gave him the location, bye-bye Rusco.
The ship circled low over a jumble of rusted factories and boarded up warehouses visible through the viewport. A swollen river flowed behind the line of industrial buildings from an era of the past.
It seemed like eons ago when Marty and I had scouted this terrain, planned that fateful heist on Baer’s turf. I remembered that scumbucket warehouse, the long, rectangular shithouse with a broken, blackened brick smokestack at the one end. Couldn’t miss it. Then there was the other one where I’d hidden the amalgo—a lower structure but with two smokestacks piking up instead of one. There it was. I debated not saying peep to Mong, just stalling him out in this charade, but I could see black death coming my way. When they had to circle back to the same row of warehouses and I squawked out the exact location, torrents of pain would follow.
I lifted an aching hand. “That’s it.”
Mong nodded. He instructed the pilot to bank.
We docked the ship in an equipment yard behind the warehouse. We stepped out onto the weed-eaten hardtop with Mong’s gunmen crouched low, guns trained on the open ground, casing the joint on the odd chance there was anyone about. No one was about. I caught a faint, acrid whiff of Brisis’s scummy air. My ears perked up at the purl of the river flowing alongside the service road over the sound of a gentle wind.
Brisis was as I remembered. A brittle coal-sulfur smell lingering in the air, random wreckage and rusty forklifts left to disintegrate, the sullen quiet of a violent past of rage. One of the original slum worlds. Here, only broken factories lurked, steeped in sullen disuse, abandoned dingy warehouses with a creepy vibe. The place seemed eerily deserted.
We passed only broken cement blocks and a corrugated tin watchhouse in the center of the yard, which looked, for all purposes, empty. We trudged up the back and around the side of the warehouse, our boots crunching on the gravelly asphalt.
They herded me along, pushing me in no gentle fashion when I lagged. I was desperate. My mind wandered to Wren. I had a sick feeling I’d never see her again. Glad she got away. Hoped she’d stay the fuck away from Mong.
The yellow sun
light hurt my eyes. Too much time spent in artificial light on ships and space stations.
My blood quickened. I knew once they got their grubby hands on the amalgo they’d waste me. At all costs, I must find a way out of this, throw a monkey wrench in their shit plans.
But how?—I had no weapon. Four against one. Mong and his telekinetic powers were unbeatable. I looked down at my throbbing hand, a comical pretzel of fingers that didn’t work, and might never work again.
More flashbacks. Those silly dreams of how I’d wanted to be a rocket engineer as a boy. Before my parents and friends had been wiped out by warmongers storming our planet, before I’d been passed from refugee camp to camp. How I’d resolved to get myself out of that ghetto, ultimately becoming a gangster, the only way to get ahead fast. Look at where it got me. Now I was back on Brisis with a Star Lord up my ass…
“Move, Rusco.”
“I have to take a piss,” came my sullen growl.
“You can piss later. I want my amalgo.”
“I’m going to piss my pants, if that’s any concern of yours.”
Balt laughed. “Go ahead. We won’t much mind.”
Mong looked over and cast me an impatient glare. “Go with him.”
Balt took me over to the watchhouse, the smug fuck, some twenty paces away, nudging me with his rifle. Weeds and long grass blades poked up through cracks in the tarmac, caressing the tin siding. If I could fake the barbarian out, get one solid hit to the balls or some sensitive place, smash his nose, maybe I could make for that rusty fence and hop it over to the thickets.
With that limp of yours, Rusco, you’d be lucky to make it twenty feet before getting gutshot. And that hand? Good luck getting over a fence.
But they’re going to kill you anyways. You want to die like a pig with lead in your brain, or die on your own terms?
Does it matter? Death is death, Mr. Rusco.
Mong seemed to be reading my thoughts, hovering around as I unzipped and heard a heavy boot fall behind me.
