“Yer duties are what I say they are, Renly. An’ I say they’re t’ sit right here an’ have another drink.” The Captain didn’t seem angry…more…amused.
Which in the Boggart’s estimation was not a good sign.
“’Course, we both know you ain’t Renly. Ya might be wearin’ his face, but you ain’t Renly.” The red eyes bored into his. “So now, I got two questions. The first one bein’, did ya kill him? If so, I hope ya stashed the body. When I’m done with you, I’ll want some dessert. And the second bein’, what are ya, an how do ya taste with steak sauce, stranger?”
Runner stood up faster than the Boggart thought he could for his size, and flipped the desk like it was made of balsa wood instead of steel and heavy composite. The Boggart fell sideways in his chair to avoid it; he felt the crash as it slammed into the door. He rolled, narrowly avoiding the Captain’s following stomp, and then sprang to his feet. He dropped the mask of Renly, opting to concentrate on keeping his skin attached to his bones instead of holding up the useless guise.
“Well, yer lively enough,” the Captain taunted. “Why don’t ya try the door?” The way was blocked by the desk leaning at a crazy angle in front of it, not to mention that he’d locked it himself on the way in. He’d meant to keep out anyone that would interfere with the bloody work he had come to do, not to trap himself.
All the fires of all the hells on Claire.
The Captain lunged then, his big ropey arms trying to grasp the Boggart. He ducked under and rushed forward, trying to get past the pirate. Runner was quicker than he thought, however; the giant monster spun, catching the Boggart between the shoulder blades with a huge elbow. He crashed into the liquor cabinet’s doors, shattering bottles and glasses.
“I like to tenderize my meat a little, y’see.” He barked a short laugh. “An’ marinate it in booze.”
The Boggart came up with a shard from a bottle, slashing in quick arcs at the Captain. The glass bit into his fingers and hand, but he ignored the pain. The Captain chuckled and took a bold step forward; the Boggart met him, slicing the pirate open from midsection to his sternum before stabbing his side a half dozen times.
The Captain roared with laughter. “Is that all ya got? Yer a piss-poor excuse fer an assassin, much less a Para.” Almost carelessly, Runner backhanded the Boggart, causing him to fly hard into the far corner and force stars into his vision.
But damn he’s strong. He shook his head to clear his vision, and came up in a crouch, the glass shiv still in his hand. The Boggart feinted left, then right, before rolling between the Captain’s legs. He sprang to his feet again, wrapping his left arm around the pirate’s waist as he stabbed the upper side of his foe’s ribcage with his right hand. No blood came from the wound, only a foul-smelling ooze that filled the room with its stench of corruption.
The Captain plucked the Boggart easily from his side before flinging him into the air again. This time the Boggart didn’t land nearly as well. Something popped in his left shoulder, and the world exploded in a wash of pain. It was everything that he could do to prop himself up on his good arm, glass shiv still in hand.
Need to stay conscious. If I black out, I’m done. He fought back the blackness, and won…though not by much.
The Captain stalked closer casually, stooped over in a room too small to fit his frame. As he reached down, the Boggart slashed up again desperately, separating the flesh from the ribs under the Captain’s left arm. The skin was laid open in a flap, exposing bone and shriveled organs beneath.
“Ya’ve got some fight in ya, I’ll say that. Yer makin’ this pretty entertaining. And that’s sayin’ somethin’. I’m gonna enjoy eatin’ ya, that’s fer sure.” He leaned in, grinning wide to show his terrible jagged yellow teeth, blood seeping through his gums. “Yer better than them pissants I got fer a crew. Bad for morale to eat them too often or without cause, anyways. Yer gonna make me strong. But how about we dance a little more first? I like ta work up an appetite.” He picked up the Boggart by the scruff of his neck, lifting him off of the floor as easily as if he was a rag doll.
The Boggart slashed at the Captain’s wrist, splitting tendons and cartilage from bone. The pirate’s grip never wavered or weakened.
I’m gonna make him strong? He’s going to goddamn eat me? The Boggart punished his memory, trying to beat something out of it. His head was pounding, and he could see his vision going dark around the edges as blood leaked between his pointed teeth. This all sounded vaguely familiar, but what—
“What in hell are you?” he gasped, not really believing that the monster would give itself away. What could he lose in the asking, though? It bought him a moment to breathe, if nothing else.
The Captain roared with laughter. “Vamp bitch didn’t tell ya? Ya never fought a Wendigo before? Well, first an’ last time, then.”
It all clicked at once for the Boggart. He knew what he had to do; he only hoped he’d live long enough to pull it off. The Captain slammed him against the wall, then threw him once more, this time at the rear of the cabin. The Boggart hit the wall and slid down, holding onto consciousness as hard as he could. The Captain loped towards him again, picking up the Boggart by the throat, leaving him scarcely enough room in his grip to breathe.
His massive fingers wrapped fully around the Boggart’s neck. “I’ve enjoyed this, assassin, but all games come to an end.”
In response, the Boggart flipped the glass shiv in his hand, then swung his fist down and hard into the Wendigo’s left eye. The pirate simply laughed, gripping the Boggart’s fist in his own hand of iron; then he slowly pulled the shiv out, before tightening his fist and crushing the glass in the Boggart’s hand. The eye—unlike the rest of him—was intact. Still like a glowing coal in the socket.
“I take it the Fang bitch sent you personal, insteada gettin’ ’nother of her flunkies?” the Captain asked, casually. “Had t’space the first dozen boy-toys she sent after me. Fang infection spoils th’ meat, sours it. Not very good eatin’.” He laughed. “I reckon this’s her best, last shot. Yer not bad. Not good, but not bad.” He let go of the Boggart’s right hand, still grinning. “So, take your best, last shot, assassin. I’m hungry.” No fear there; clearly he didn’t think there was anything the Boggart could do to change the outcome.
“Alright.” In a single deft motion, the Boggart unholstered his revolver and shoved it into the wound he had caused on the pirate’s left flank. For a frantic half-second he wiggled the barrel around until he found what he was looking for. The heart! Looking into the Captain’s eyes, he pulled the trigger.
A muted whump was the only sound the heavy pistol made as the solid silver bullet and all of the expanding gases from the shot vaporized the pirate captain’s heart and other nearby organs.
Runner’s eyes went wide, and for a moment his grip tightened around the Boggart’s throat, threatening to squeeze the life out of him.
Just as quickly as it had come the strength fled from the grip, depositing the Boggart onto the deck in a heap.
Then the Captain toppled over like a dead tree. He hit the deck with a heavy thud, and did not move, the hell-light gone from his eyes, which were now only empty, dark sockets.
The Boggart could only lie there, panting, waiting for his wounds to heal. This had been sheer luck; he’d kept the revolver loaded with what was left of his silver bullets, figuring that since this Captain was putting pressure on Fangs, he had to be a Fur—especially since most privateer crews were Furs. A Wendigo pirate made as much sense, though; plenty of loot and bodies to feast on. This was the first time he had ever seen one; he hoped it would be the last. At least his own curiosity and the nature of his job had made him research every Para there had ever been reported since the time of the Zombie Uprising. Otherwise…he’d have been dead.
Of course, he could go ethereal as soon as the Wendigo tried to eat him, but he was still stuck on the ship with no way off while the Captain and crew were actively looking for him.
Which
meant eventually the timer on that box would run out.
And then he would have been dead. And he’d have been spending every one of those last minutes either in the Nowhere agonizing about it, or popping in and out, trying to figure a way out.
The Boggart opened the cylinder on his revolver, counting the remaining rounds. Four left. Should be enough for this job, barring any more…complications. He flicked his wrist, closing the cylinder with a loud snap. His head was swimming, and his left arm was still refusing to work; probably dislocated at the shoulder. He needed a little bit of rest, at least. It was going to be a stone bitch putting that shoulder back in.
He couldn’t stick around here, either. Eventually someone would come calling on the Captain—the late Captain, he reminded himself—and would find the grisly results of the melee.
Besides, the Boggart still had more work to do before he could leave.
He took a deep, pain-filled breath, and went ethereal, jaunting to his watch, back in the hold.
It was a shock going from feeling “blissful nothing” back into “agonizing pain” again. He nearly blacked out. This must have been the worst fight he’d had in…well, a long time. He put his back against the wall and slid down it, then, gritting his teeth, grabbed his “bad” wrist with his good hand, and pulled, and rotated slowly, until the shoulder snapped back into place with an audible pop, and a stab of agony that put spots in front of his eyes. He could have used more whisky…and a rare steak…and a bed. Maybe a nice woman to massage him while he healed…yeah, that’d be the ticket.
Too bad what he got was a storage closet that still smelled of smoke from the air recyclers, and a cold bulkhead. Life sucked. But it beat the alternative. Like being the blue-plate special for a Wendigo or dying in a puff of vapor. He did his best to patch himself up, cleaning up the cuts and draining the very last dregs from his flask to dull down the pain. It didn’t work nearly as well as he had hoped.
He’d have to find an EVA suit to get over to the runabout. Once he was in there, he could first call the Púca and give the bastard the coordinates of what used to be the Cenotaph. Then he could call Claire. Then he’d drink the runabout’s bar dry. First, however, he still had a little bit more of the ol’ skullduggery to perform.
He looked up at the shelf that held the watch-box and something occurred to him. There just might be some loot in the closet that would be small enough for him to pocket. By damn, he deserved it, and why should Home Service get it?
He dragged himself to his feet and looked over the shelves, pocketing a few things that looked expensive, high-tech, or both. It was a little hard to figure out what might be good; Paras, except for maybe the Fangs, weren’t particularly good with tech. The Boggart had kept current with the advances of late, but like others of his kind was still slow compared to Norms. That Fur he was after, Fred, had been a rarity; he had taken to tech and engineering like a fish to water. Maybe because he’d been an engineer before he was Turned. The Boggart was a far more ancient thing, all told.
While he searched, he became aware that things outside this closet were getting…noisy. Very. Alarms went off—that would be when the Captain’s body was discovered, he reckoned—but shortly after that, the noises got more chaotic. The whine of energy-weapons, the sound of old-fashioned gunshots, screams, yelling…it appeared that the only thing holding the crew together had been fear of the Captain. With that gone, it was chaos.
Which was good and bad. Good, because no one would be looking specifically for him. Bad, because anyone he met was going to assume he was someone to kill.
Well, he’d just have to be sneak—
The door to his closet opened. Before he could react, a Reboot darted in, and slammed and locked the door behind himself. The Boggart turned around slowly. The Reboot had its hands placed against the door, as if to hold it against whatever fighting was raging outside. “Man, this is a bad scene. Vibes all wrong, everything gone to hell…”
The Reboot turned around, and only then did it notice the Boggart.
“Oh.”
Before the Reboot could react, the Boggart had his right hand around its throat, his left going to its mouth; a good twist, and he figured that its decayed head would come off. The Reboot’s eyes grew wide in their sockets, and it held its hands up slowly.
The Boggart took a moment, nothing but shared silence in the closet. Carefully, he let his left hand move away from the Reboot’s mouth. “You’re a zombie.”
“No shit? Hadn’t noticed.” The Reboot checked himself. “Dude…” the Reboot said weakly. “Dude, don’t, like…do anything rash. Okay?”
For a moment, the Boggart wondered if he’d hit his head a little too hard. “How can you talk? Are you part of the crew?”
“Dude, I dunno how I can talk. One day I was catchin’ waves and partaking of some killer Maui Wowie, the next thing I know, I’m a walking stiff.” The Reboot flailed a hand. “I told Fred we shouldn’t head for any place with people in it, but noooooo, he just had to go to the nearest station, and we get there, and it’s ass deep in Fangs, man!”
The Boggart slapped the Reboot hard, and ignored that some flakes of skin came off. “Hey, slow down. Get your head straight. Who are you? And how do you know Fred?”
“Fred?” Belatedly the Reboot seemed to realize he’d spilled a name. “Fred who, man?” The Boggart held up a single claw in front of the Reboot’s face, cocking an eyebrow.
The Reboot folded. “Dude, don’t, dude, I dunno who you are but…look, we were on this ship, see? This ship, actually, before it went to hell. And we spaced the Fangs, cause they were, like total douches. Breaking Reboots, only a matter of time before they got us, and Fred was sick of it, too. Y’know, being lunch and taking their shit. And we found a sweet spot to park, and then the stupid ship sent up some dingus or other and called for help and Fred, Fred, he was the engineer, he said we had to get ourselves lost someplace where there were lots of people and I said no, but he wouldn’t listen, man, and we headed for the nearest big station and it was full, I mean packed with Fangs, and Fred got off to look around and by then I’d figured out how to fly this thing and I took off and then these guys found the ship so I played like a dumb Reboot and they took it to a refit yard and that’s all I know man!” All the information spilled past his tattered lips in a rush, and the Boggart absorbed it all. It included the interesting fact that as far as he knew, the renegade Fur was still back on “the station.”
“And that would be what station, exactly?” the Boggart asked, in a little growl.
The Reboot could not have been happier to babble on. “The one with all the Fangs, run by the Fang bitch, dude, Fred was figuring he’d head for the nearest Fur station an’ try an’ hide, or Norms, but there ain’t a lot of Norms out here in this corner of space, but he figured a Norm station was better ’cause no Norm would ever be able to sniff him out, he was gonna sell the ship for scrap an’ use that t’ run off, an I figured he’d just ditch me, ’cause man, who cares about a dumb Reboot, so that was why I took the ship an’ booked, an’ the Captain, he picked up the ship not long after I left the station, I figured I had more chance hiding with the other Reboots so I hid for awhile.”
If the Reboot had had working lungs, he would have run out of breath before that sentence was over. Everything started falling into place for the Boggart, though. This Reboot, the beach planet, the pirates, the whole shebang. The Reboot had outlined it very nicely. He couldn’t help but smile. “That’s good, much better. You still haven’t told me your name.” His outstretched claw twitched once, just a little closer to the Reboot’s eye.
“Pete,” squeaked the Reboot.
“Well, Pete. This is what you are going to do. If you enjoy keeping your brains inside your skull, you’re going to show me where the engine room is. From there, we’re gonna get a nice EVA kit. And then you are going to come back here to this closet and you are going to lock yourself in. And you are not going to move for at least a couple of days; pro
bably safer for your wrinkled hide with all the fighting outside, anyways. Savvy?”
“Yes,” the Reboot squeaked. “Sir.”
“All right then.” The Boggart let go of the Reboot, smiling. “After you.”
Did Reboots tremble with fear? Could they? The zombie seemed steady enough to the Boggart as he shambled along the corridors. The Boggart was not entirely sure that he trusted this thing; after all, a zombie that could talk was a zombie that could lie. Everyone remembered what the last famous “talking zombie” was capable of. And there wasn’t much left of him to take body-language readings from. He kept his hand on his revolver and his eyes trained on the Reboot. They could still clearly hear the fighting, no matter how far they ventured into the ship. From what the Boggart remembered of older ship layouts, they should be heading in the right direction.
“Any of the other crew know that you’re smarter than the average bear?” He grinned, pushing the Reboot ahead of him.
“Uh, what?” The Reboot stopped and turned to stare at him. “What’s that mean, dude?”
He knows what it means, and he’s going to lie, the Boggart decided. But he figured he’d give it a try anyway.
“Any of the crew know you can think? And talk?” he said, with exaggerated patience.
“Dude! Why would I, like—gurk!” The last came as the Boggart closed his unwounded hand tight around the Reboot’s throat.
“Don’t lie,” he said, gently. “I’ve got centuries’ worth of figuring out how to tell when people lie. And, if you couldn’t tell, I’m not in the best of moods right now. Also, I know exactly how to take you Reboots apart and scatter the pieces so you can never get back together again. So if you don’t want to spend the rest of however long with your head crammed in a wallspace staring at nothing, don’t lie.” He released a little tension from his grip, just enough for the Reboot to speak.
“Yes,” squeaked the Reboot. “I figgered, the Captain being…they’d take anything.” He looked sullenly at the floor. “I think he might have been planning on selling me, down the road, anyways.”
REBOOTS Page 11
