by Rob Grant
Djuhn'Keep smiled, turned up the volume and lounged back in his chair, conducting the symphony of screams and death rattles as if it were the sweetest of sweet music. The agonoid population would be reduced to a bare handful by the time they burst, exhausted, through the final door and into the docking bay.
They would fall panting to the floor, and he would allow them a brief moment of relief before he opened the docking bay doors and sucked them all out into the cold, black embrace of space.
They would be able to survive quite a while in deep space, of course, but without any means of altering direction, they would simply speed along on their original trajectory, until their internal energy sources burned out, and they could no longer stop themselves from freezing up.
They would become icy monuments to his deadly talents.
He was, truly, the greatest agonoid of all. He had a gift that set him apart from the rest.
He had guile.
And that quality would not only guarantee that he caught the human and his companions, it would ensure their demise would be painful beyond mortal imagination, and lingering beyond endurance.
FOURTEEN
Ace stepped through the hatch into the gallery and ordered the door to lock behind him. He slipped a rubber door wedge between his teeth, jammed the numb hand of his injured arm inside the refrigerator and leaned his weight against the door, lodging it firmly. He breathed deeply a few times, then suddenly tugged his broken arm backwards with all his strength, and with a strangled sob, collapsed to the floor.
He fought off the warm comfort of unconsciousness that threatened to fold him in its arms, and embraced the pain.
He looked down at his swollen limb. No bones visible. He tried to make a fist, with minimal success. It was a pretty botched repair, but it would do for now. Once they'd got their cojones out of the cauldron, he'd re-break the arm and set it properly. He looked around for the sewing needle he'd already threaded, and noticed half the doorstop on the floor. In his agony, he'd bitten it in two.
He spat out the other half and slotted the needle between his teeth. He berated himself that he was going soft in his dotage, pinched together the edges of the wound and slid the needle through the swollen, puffy flesh.
As it slipped out the other side, a strange sound made him pause.
And another one. The clomp of metal on metal.
And again.
It seemed to be coming from overhead.
He crossed to the galley terminal and called up the external cameras.
A space-suited man was crawling across the outer hull, magnetic clamps on his hands and boots.
Ace dashed out of the galley and through the midsection, and bounded up the steps into the cockpit.
Rimmer was lounging at his station, watching the space walk.
Ace dialled up comms. 'Skipper? Is that you out there?'
Lister's voice fzzed back at him: 'Yo, Commander.'
'I want you to come right back. That's an order.'
'Don't be daft. I'm halfway there.'
'It's an order, Davey boy.'
'What are you going to do? Arrest me?"
'Be a sensible old satsuma and pop back inside: you haven't got the space-walk experience I have. Let me dig Kryten out.'
'I've got plenty of space-walk experience. Plus, I've also got two arms that work.'
'I've told you, there's nothing wrong with my arm you couldn't fix with an Elastoplast. There's no need for you to chuck your love spuds on the barbecue.'
'Look, will you stop distracting me? It's a long way down, and I'm trying to concentrate. Over and out.'
Lister reached up to his throat mike and flicked it off. He looked down and to his left. He could see Kryten's robotic derrière poking upside-down through the concave bulge in the hull.
It did not look like a comfortable posture.
Slowly, carefully, he crabbed his way over towards it.
Once he was in position, he slipped a crampon into the nozzle of a pressure gun and fired it through the hull. He tugged it hard and, satisfied it was secure, looped his safety harness through the hoop.
He pressed his helmet against the hull, and banged three times. He felt the vibrations as Kryten banged back in reply.
He slid the pressure gun back into his belt, took out the laser cutter and assessed the job. He'd have to cut around the edges of the hole to enlarge it, and slice through the girder securing Kryten before he could be dragged clear. He checked his oxygen supply. Three hours. Should be plenty.
He fired up the laser and started cutting.
He'd only made a small incision, when he noticed something extremely odd.
Kryten's butt did riot appear to fit snugly into the gap in the hull.
Lister stopped cutting and reached down. He pushed Kryten's rump. It wobbled. There was a good six inches between his thighs and the edges of the hole.
He trained his helmet light on the buttocks. They looked strangely unfamiliar. Not that he spent a great deal of his life examining Kryten's backside, but the top of his legs seemed shinier, more metallic.
As Lister reached up for his throat mike, the crampon securing him to the hull pinged out and launched itself into space. He watched it go by with a strange feeling of detachment.
The only thing preventing him from floating off through the stars, now, was his inertia.
As he turned back to Starbug he saw the metal in front of him buckle and give. A robotic hand shot clean through the hull and grabbed his throat.
Lister's panicking eyes darted toward the hole where Kryten's rear end should have been, only it wasn't.
The hull began to buckle and ripple as if it were made out of rubber sheets. A head burst through. Lister stared in shocked fascination at the strange, grey face, barely inches from his own. The face cocked at a curious angle. Its lips parted, displaying a shocking row of sharp metal teeth.
The head lurched up and pressed itself against Lister's helmet and its mouth began moving.
It was speaking to him. The sound was carried by vibrations against his helmet, and though it was tinny and half-obscured by the jackhammer pounding of his own heart, Lister could make out the words quite distinctly, even though they didn't make much sense to him.
The voice was saying. 'I am piece of crap. Welcome to Hell.'
PART FIVE
High Midnight
ONE
The desert sun bore down on the dusty street like a relentless laser somebody had forgotten to turn off. Sheriff Will Carton stepped on to the baking sidewalk, the doors of his office flapping behind him, ushering him to be out and on his way, as if even his own jailhouse wanted nothing more to do with him. He swayed until he found perpendicular, and then stood in that conscientiously upright way that drunks have; that's the thing about drunks — the more they drink, the more sober they try to look. He squinted down the street. Deserted. Just a few ponies hitched up by the saloon, too hot and torpid even to dip their musty heads into the water trough.
He clunked down on to the street with such a heavy, ill-measured stride that his right spur caught itself in wood, impaling his heel to the sidewalk. He tried to tug it free, all nonchalant-like, but it wouldn't budge. He looked around, sighed miserably, and let himself fall so his backside thumped on to the sidewalk, sending choking dust billowing all around him, and then went about the business of removing his boot.
By the time he'd got the spur loose and himself re-shod, the street was no longer deserted. A well-dressed couple were scurrying across it, her with one of them fancy parasol contraptions from Paris, Europe. They looked to be deliberately avoiding contact with Carton, but he was too far gone to notice or care. He hauled himself to his full,
strangely erect stance and tipped the brim of his shapeless stetson. 'Mornin', ma'am... Jeff.'
The woman rolled her eyes heavenwards. The man stopped and faced him and said 'Morning.... Sheriff, ' in such a venomous way it sounded like a curse.
Still, the tone whistled r
ight through Carton's ears without registering. Jeff was a number cruncher over at the bank, and was so well-to-do he carried genuine paper money and owned a wallet. Ought to be good for a little tap. 'Say, Jeff: you wouldn't happen to have a couple of nickels goin' spare? Only I got me a real bad case of trail throat.' Carton wiped the back of his hand across his lips, as if the pantomime might give credence to his claim.
'What you've got,' Jeff's wife pitched in, 'is a bad case of drunken bum disease.'
Carton swayed and tried to lick his lips, only his tongue was like a fat dog jammed in a desert gopher hole. Jeff looked distressed. 'Now, Esther, there ain't no call...'
'There's call a-plenty, Jeff Calculator. Young Wyatt Memory got hisself shot plum dead on this street yesterday, while this... this gentleman was snoring his way to a hangover in his own jail cell.'
'You're right, ma'am.' Carton took off his hat and twirled it in his hands. 'And I felt awfully bad 'bout it, that's a plain fact. But see, that helped me see the light, and now I'm all cleaned up, honest. 'Fact I'm collecting for the church steeple fund, on account of now I'm all fired up with religion. Hallelujah and stuff' He proffered his hat. 'What about a couple of pennies to absolutely guarantee your place in heaven?'
That did it for Esther. She swung her basket at Carton and, though it didn't connect, the effort of dodging threw his balance, so he wound up butt down on the street for the second time in three minutes.
Jeff looked at him pityingly. 'Don't you got no shame left, Will?' He took his wife's arm and led her off to the bank.
Carton shielded his eyes against the sun's brutal glare and called after them: 'Won't hold this against you, folks, you being ordinarily such law-abiding people and all. Just so long as you don't forget your tickets to the Lawman's barn dance. Just a nickel a ticket, if you purchase right now.' But Mr and Mrs Calculator were way out of earshot.
A tumbleweed cliched across the street. Carton sighed again. He thought for a while, but couldn't figure a way to raise himself from the seated position, so he rolled on to his front and dragged himself up to the perpendicular once more.
As he was dusting himself down, pointlessly, a little boy in a check shirt and blue dungarees skidded barefoot up to him. 'What happened, Sheriff? You's OK?'
Carton looked down at the sweet concern on the boy's face, and found himself a smile. 'Warn't nothin', Billy boy. Just lost my footing.'
Billy dusted the sheriff's waistcoat. 'You're lookin' kinda tired, sir. Bin out fightin' injuns again?'
'Surely have, Billy.'
'What kind?'
'Oh, lemme see. There was some Arapaho, some Navajo, some Idunno...'
'Ain't never heard of that tribe.'
'They was mean and they was moody, Billy. They was after my scalp.'
'But, Sheriff, you don't got no hair.'
'Zactly. That's how mean and moody them injuns was, Billy.'
'How many?'
'Why, there must've been twenty to my left, twenty to my right and twenty to my rear, all hollerin' and whoopin' their crazy war chants. I figured sixty injuns — ain't worth wasting good lead bullets, so I just threw down my six shooters, rolled up my sleeves and ducked it out with 'em.'
'You killed sixty injuns with your bare hands?'
'Sixty injuns, two bank robbers, eight gun-runners and a grizzly. It's been a slow day, Billy. Hope things'll pick up tomorrow.'
'Gee, Sheriff. What a story.'
Carton focused on Billy's face, and noticed a raw bruise blooming on his cheek. With creaking knees he crouched to the youngster's eye level and gripped his shoulders. 'Say, Billy boy. What happened to you?'
Billy shrugged him off. 'Nothin'.'
'You wasn't brawlin' on my account again, was you?'
'It was Tommy Tate. He said you was a lousy, stinkin' drunk who wasn't no good to no one. I couldn't stand by and let him talk disrespectful.'
Carton closed his eyes. Tommy Tate was fifty-seven years old. 'You didn't ought to be fighting grown men on my account, Billy. I ain't worth it.'
'Sure you are, Sheriff. And purty soon the whole town's gonna know what a genuine hero you are. You're gonna stand up to those Apocalypse boys when they ride into town tonight, and blast 'em all back to the stinkin' hole in the wall they came from.'
'Tonight?' Carton stood, and took out his pocket watch. 'They're coming tonight?' Where had the time gone? How could he have forgotten?
Billy nodded. 'Is it true no one in the whole town will be your deputy? You're gonna have to shoot it out with the four of'em all on your own?'
Carton tapped his watch, and slipped it back into his waistcoat. 'That's the way it is, Billy.' His throat felt like the furnace on the Cannonball express. 'That's the way it is.' The thirst dragged his head round, and the rest of him followed it towards the saloon.
'Sheriff?'
Carton stopped and looked back at Billy.
'Can I be your deputy?'
'You're just a kid, Billy.'
Billy straightened up, all indignatious-like. 'I'm nine and a quarter in a month's time. I'm practically shaving.'
Carton walked back and crouched Billy-height again. He fished in his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a badge. 'Sure, you can be my deputy,' he smiled. 'You want a badge?'
Billy's eyes opened wider than a snake swallowing a hog whole. 'A reg'lar deputy's badge? For me?'
'That's right, Billy. And because you're my best friend in the whole world' — Carton dragged his hand across his mouth, thirstily — 'it's only gonna cost ya two nickels.'
'Hot diggety!' Billy fumbled the pennies out of his dungarees and grabbed the badge, as if Carton might change his mind, and then pelted off to show off his trophy to just about anyone who cared to look, and just about anyone who didn't care, too.
Carton looked at the sad little coins in his hand, and cursed himself. What the hell had happened to him? Billy Belief was about the only friend he had left, and he'd cheated him without even thinking twice. Some place along the trail, something had gone mightily wrong with old Iron Will Carton. He'd gotten lower than a scorpion's scrotum. Then he heard the beckoning call of the old honky-tonk keys tinkling inside the saloon, thought about the slug of forgetfulness the pennies would buy and stopped worrying.
He clomped up the steps, thrust open the double doors and strode with resolution into the smoky dimness of the bar room. It was plenty busy. He scanned the room as he walked, not wanting to stop before he hit the bar for fear his oscillating might betray the recency of his tryst with old lady moonshine. He kidded himself his step was measured, authoritarian. Just the good ol' sheriff doing his good ol' rounds.
Suddenly, he was pitched, headlong and horizontal, and his head collided with the spittoon, which flopped its vile gloop all over his face. He looked up. A moose's head, dangling from the centre strut was staring down at him, leering. He wiped away the mucal filth with the sleeve of his shirt and turned to spot the obstacle that had tripped him.
The shining black leather boot was still jutting out in the aisle between the tables. Carton's eyes followed the boot up to the pinstriped trousers with their tomahawk-sharp creases, past the holstered gun and the billowing cream shirt to the shoelace tie and then the cruelly handsome face that gleamed a grin above them. 'Well, well, well, Sheriff. Fancy seein' a man of your sober disposition in a low-down drinking establishment like this.'
The cowpokes around the card-tables laughed plenty.
Anger helped Carton to his feet. 'You shouldn't oughta have done that, Jimmy.'
The piano player decided that this didn't need accompaniment and stopped tinkling. Chairs scrawped against the wooden floor as Jimmy stood and the rest of the public put themselves as best they could out of the line of fire. Still grinning, Jimmy flipped open the catches on his holsters and flexed his hands. 'Why don't you try it, Sheriff?'
Carton didn't move. Didn't even sway.
'Come on,' Jimmy sneered. 'They say you used to be faster than a toilet stop in rattlesnake
country. Before'n you got yeller.'
The real Will Carton would have emptied both his guns, swept up the bullet casings and been making arrangements for a decent Christian funeral before a chancer like Jimmy had even thought about moving for his weapons. The old Will Carton.
'What are you waiting for, Tinhorn? Chicken got your liver?'
Carton dragged his fat dog of a tongue over his lips. 'Mighty sorry I stumbled over your boot, there, Jimmy. Didn't mean nothin' by it.'
The cowpokes whistled and jeered. Someone flicked a playing-card that sliced painfully across Carton's nose. Mucho laughter. The piano player hit the keys and everybody scrawped chairs back into place. Carton dragged his dry sleeve across his face and headed for the bar again.
'Will? You OK?'
'I'm dandy, Hope. Gimme two fingers of your best damn firewater. Just ate a chunk of humble pie, got stuck right in my craw.'
'Don't pay no never-no-mind to the likes of Jimmy Guilt. He's all bluster and fancy laundry.'
'He's in an awful rush to book hisself a berth in Boot Hill, sure enough. Now, about that slug, Hope...'
'Boss says I warn't to give you no credit no more for no liquor, Will. Could fix you a nice plate of stew, though. It's fresh possum.'
Carton slapped Billy's money on the bar. 'I'm a cash client today, lovely lady. So pour me two fat fingers of your best sippin' liquor. And don't be after slippin' me that gut-swill you keep for the panhandlers. I want the smooth stuff. The stuff where you get your eyesight back after two days, guaranteed.'
Hope sighed and reached under the bar for the bottle. 'Won't do you no good, Will. When you wake up, you're still gonna be you. Still facing away from your problems.' The thick brown liquid glopped into the tumbler. Carton eyed it lustily. Lived a minute or so anticipating the groove that first sip was going to cut through the crust on his tongue. He reached for the glass.
Carton hoped it was firecrackers popping outside, but he knew there was small chance of that. It was gunfire. No question, really. Still, he reached for his glass...
