by John Shirley
Two hours later, in the hottest part of the day, the old man went to lie down in the shade of one of his crude sheet metal shelters, and was snoring loud enough to make the sheet metal rattle as Zac set himself to breaking free in earnest. The ropes were looser, now, in some places, and the blood was actually helping, lubricating his wrists and hands, helping him pull from the loops. Five minutes of painful, grating work—and he got one hand free. He was able to turn around enough to use the free hand to untie the other, then he unbound his feet, keeping watch on old Berl all the time.
At last Zac stood up—slowly, carefully—and stepped out of the ropes, wincing at the pain in his wrists and ankles. He found the canteen, slung that over his shoulder, then took the old man’s shotgun. He looked at Berl and thought about taking the necklace—but that would probably wake the old hermit and then he’d have to kill him.
Zac shook his head—and turned away.
Berl went on blissfully snoring as Zac put a few supplies in an old rucksack. Food, ammo, medical dressing. He slung it over a shoulder, put on a floppy old sunhat that’d belonged to Berl’s partner, got a good grip on the shotgun, and set off down the hill, walking quietly as he could. The old man’s snoring receded into the distance.
Maybe a real native of Pandora would have killed the old bastard and taken everything. It had crossed Zac’s mind. For one thing, when Berl woke, the old curmudgeon might send Bizzy after him. But he just couldn’t do it.
He watched for the drifter, didn’t see it, and worked his way laterally through the boulders to the shallow cave in the hillside. The cave entrance was actually a filled-in skag den, judging by the smell, where he’d seen Berl poring over his stash of alien artifacts.
He paused in the shade of a big rock to drink from the canteen, and to shore up his nerve. The old man might not trouble to come after him just for a shotgun and a bag of supplies. He hadn’t taken the rocket launcher, nor most of the food. But this … if he took the alien artifacts …
Chances were, Berl would want to hunt him down.
Feeling strung out between certainty and utter confusion, Zac groaned softly to himself. Finally, he thought, If I don’t do this, it’s all been for nothing.
Zac screwed the canteen shut, slung it over his shoulder, and took a deep breath. Then he went to the cave, and began digging with his bare hands.
The box was only shallowly buried. He dug it up and found there were two artifacts in it. And he had no idea what they were, or how to use them. One was the contorted, squirming, tubelike glassy spiral, like a twist of a neon light, that Berl had pointed across the desert. The other was a kind of hoop, about the size of a bracelet, made of the same translucent semimetallic material as Berl’s necklace.
He held the spiral tube up—and immediately it twisted about in his hands, startling him so that he almost dropped it. It was like a snake with arthritis. At last it fixed itself in a new shape—and he had the definite impression it was pointing, like the needle of a compass.
His working theory was, it pointed toward the crashed spaceship it had come from.
Zac tucked the artifacts in his rucksack, reburied the empty box, and hurried away, down the hill and into the ravenous wasteland.
Could she really trust him? Probably not.
But she was stuck with Vance, for now, Marla figured, as they trudged along the Trash Coast in moonlight so bright it was almost daylight. Despite having apparently eliminated his old shipmates, Vance seemed apprehensive, glancing to the right and left, keeping up a punishing pace on the cracked road.
Marla was still stunned by what she’d seen: Grunj’s Island exploding. Men tossed in pieces, high into the air. Scores of men floundered, drowning. Others, in the boat with her, shot to pieces by Vance.
What were Zac and Cal going through, if they were alive? Perhaps if she’d stuck with Mash she’d have seen them in the “slave pens.”
Long mooncast shadows crisscrossed the road in front of them from the angular outcroppings of rough stone; from the heaps of old debris from mining camps, and wrecked vehicles. She was aware of a bone-deep weariness sweeping over her. Where was Vance taking her?
“Are we going someplace … secure?” she asked.
“Yeah. We gotta get past some scumbags first. But I’ve got a little place that’s pretty well hidden and protected; we can stay there till tomorrow. Then we look for that crashed alien ship of yours.”
“What, um, scumbags are we going to have to get past?”
“You’ll see. You still got that gun?” Vance asked her.
“I do. Right here.”
“Be ready to use it. We might have trouble up ahead … And I need you to be ready to use your weapons. The more of us use ’em right, the better our chances. I figure you’re gonna need some practice. And you’re gonna have your chance pretty quick. We’re getting near a hangout for Psychos … I got to go through there to get where I’m going …”
That gave her a little energy. The energy of being on edge. She seemed to see the deep shadows moving, twisting, giving birth to shapes in the debris piles edging the road …
But the shadows to the sides never took real form. When the attack came it was from straight ahead.
She heard the Psycho before she saw him. She heard a high-pitched, but definitely human, “Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” coming from the darkness down the road. Then she saw the man who was making the shrill war whoop as he ran toward them, about fifty meters away, an axe upraised in his right hand: one of the Psychos, this one of medium height. Helmeted, hockey-masked, eyes glowing like orange embers, bare-chested, muscular, high boots, orange pants—his body straining toward them, muscles rigid, shrieking wordlessly as he came … everything about him said: I’m here to kill you.
“Shoot him!” Vance urged her. “Let’s see what you can do!”
The Psycho was closer, running through a strip of moonlight. “Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
“Go on, shoot him!”
“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” Closer yet.
She could see a sheen of sweat on the lunatic’s chest …
Closer. She raised the pistol. Shoot him in the head? The chest?
“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
“Shoot him, woman!”
The Psycho was picking up speed, shrieking, mouth open wide, a few paces away—
She fired, shot him in the middle of the chest.
He kept coming.
She fired again. And again. And …
She shot the Psycho again as the axe came swinging down at her head—Vance stepped in, caught the axe as the Psycho fell forward, axe hand outstretched … dead.
Vance tossed the axe to one side. “You’re lucky he didn’t have a shield.” He frowned at her. “And you cut that pretty fine, lady! Trying to test my nerve?”
“No.” She lowered the gun. “I saw what you did in the boat. I don’t have any doubts about your nerve. I just … never killed anyone before.”
“In the case of one of these”—he nudged the Psycho’s body with his boot—“I wouldn’t say anyone. I’d say anything.”
She stepped back from the pool of blood spreading around the Psycho. She saw the moon reflected in the dead Psycho’s blood. “How did they get this way?”
“Some say they went crazy looking for the Vault. But that doesn’t explain everything. What I heard, there’s something in the Headstone Mine—where all these bastards used to work. What it is I don’t know, but a guy named Sledge found it. Used it on them, that made them crazy dangerous. Something to do with the iridium there maybe. All I know is, they started to go nuts … and mutate.”
“You can’t mutate after you’re already born.”
“You can on this planet. Anyhow—if you’re exposed to certain things, here, you change in a way that—if it’s not mutation, it’s the next best thing. Like that one coming at us now … a prime example … and chances are he’s got a shield …”
“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
Th
is one was glowing in the night—when he ran through a strip of light he looked like the other Psycho but when he ran through shadow he glowed against the backdrop, with a nimbus of fiery red.
“Better reload that gun,” Vance said, giving Marla another clip. She fumbled with it in the dimness, but managed to load the gun.
“Now—aim for that shield. See where the gear is, on him? Aim right at it … use every bullet …”
She aimed the gun, licking her dry lips, wanting to just run from the thing coming at her, and knowing she’d never make it. “Why is he glowing like that?”
“’Cause he’s a Burning Psycho.”
As the Burning Psycho got closer she saw his mask was like a bird’s face, beaky, crested in feathers; his arms were covered with feathered sheaths, and flames flickered from him like the feathers of some diabolic god.
She was frozen at the sight … the Psycho was getting closer …
“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
“Marla—!”
She fired, again and again, and saw the Psycho’s shield sparking with the impacts of the bullets. They seemed to barely slow him.
She fired again and the shield flickered, went out—just as she ran out of bullets. He cackled with glee and raised a hand over his head, to go with the uplifted axe—
“He’s got a grenade!” Vance shouted, stepping in front of her. “Suicide attack!”
Vance fired his combat rifle from the hip, spraying the Burning Psycho with bullets. The Psycho went down, the grenade bounced from his hand …
Vance turned and grabbed her, threw her to the ground, and flung himself down beside her—and the grenade went off.
Fire plumed, fragments of road rained, shrapnel screamed over them.
She lay there, afraid to move. But at last, coughing with the dust, she got to her knees and looked around. Her ears rang with the sound of the explosion.
Now two dead men lay on the road, in two puddles of blood. And there was another figure running down the road toward them. “Why do they do that?” she asked dazedly. “I mean, come one at a time like that, head-on?”
Vance helped her to her feet. “They sometimes attack in groups. But asking why they do something—hey, they’re psychos, aren’t they?”
“This one’s big … but … lopsided. And it’s like he only has one arm …”
“Yeah.” He was loading his rifle. “One big arm. And one stubby one. It’s a deformity. Carries the axe with the big one …”
“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
He handed her the rifle. “Let’s see you try this gun …”
“But I’ve never fired one of these!”
Vance grinned. “Better learn quick—here he comes! A Badass Psycho! Looks like he’s got a shield—it’s kinda flickering. Must be low on power. Put that rifle butt against your shoulder there …”
“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
“Hold it up like that … right, now line up the sights and squeeze the trigger easy, send him some bursts …”
The combat rifle bucked in her hands, rudely banged into her shoulder, made her stagger a step back with its recoil. The big, deformed, masked man rushing toward them caught rounds in the force field of his cheap shield—sparking blue and red—and came pounding onward, howling out actual words now: “Time to play … time to play … time to play-pla-play ya meat puppets!”
Vance stepped up close behind Marla, put his arms around her, helped her aim. She couldn’t deny the sexual exhilaration she felt as he did it.
“Strip the flesh, salt the wound! Hahahaha haaaaaaaaa!” shrieked the Badass Psycho.
She fired—squeezing out the rest of her clip. The shield fell, the big man staggered as bullets splashed his blood from a half-dozen geysering wounds.
He swung the axe as he took the last few steps—and it chunked down in the dirt at her feet, as he fell facedown in the dusty road.
The Badass Psycho lay there quivering, muttering as he died. Vance took a pistol from his belt and shot the Psycho in the back of his head, three times quickly, to finish him off.
Marla looked away.
But Vance took her head in his hands, and roughly turned it so she was looking at the gray and red splash of brains in the moonlight.
“Don’t look away! You want to survive out here, you gotta look right at death, girl! You got to stare it in the face! You got to want to blow out their damn brains! You got to be almost as psycho as they are! If you’re not … they’ll get us both! You understand me?”
“Yes,” she said, retching, pulling away from him. “Yes, yes, yes …”
He took the gun from her and pointed up the road. “Let’s head on—I think that’ll be all we hear outta these fuckers if we don’t get any closer to their crazy little camp. There’s a trail up to the left we can take to skirt around the rest of ’em. It’ll take us to the place where we’re gonna bed down for the night. With any luck, we won’t wake up with a couple of loony scumsuckers cutting our throats …”
“Oh hell,” Roland whispered. “I think it’s Crannigan.”
They were lying flat on the lip of a high sand dune, overlooking a shallow valley of sand and scrub. The moonlight was bright, picking out the shapes of Crannigan and his men clustered below. “What’ll he do if he sees you?” Cal asked.
“Probably kill me if he can. But … might be able to negotiate something. Better if he doesn’t see us.”
“So … shouldn’t we get to the outrunner and get outta here?”
“Like I said, you got good instincts. Let’s go.”
They slid down the face of the dune, and ran toward the outrunner, about ten meters away.
A green-white explosion of energy, expanding in the shape of a sphere, knocked Cal flat on his back.
He found himself dizzily staring up at the oversized moon of Pandora. His ears buzzed, his head seemed to vibrate. What was on that moon? Was anyone there? Were they staring down at him now, with their heads buzzing and vibrating?
“Hey kid …” It was Roland, dragging him to his feet. “Get up. We got to try to get the hell out of …”
“You’re not going anywhere alive, unless I say so, Roland,” said someone stepping into view from the shadow under the dune. He had an Eridian rifle in his hands.
“Great,” Roland muttered.
Crannigan leered at them. “Well he’s able to survive the Primals and he’s able to identify me—but he’s not able to stay out of my way.” He pointed the alien weapon. “Tell me why I shouldn’t blow you to hell.”
“Because then I’d be in hell waiting for you, Crannigan,” said Roland, grinning. “The other reason is—this kid here is worth a million big ones in ransom. And I’m the only one who speaks his language—unless you speak Caucasio Bunkonian?”
Crannigan blinked. “What language?”
Cal took the cue. “Carbenosian rafka bukasa?” he asked, stringing random syllables together.
“Carbenosian nofka, ibo,” said Roland to Cal, in the same sort of gibberish.
“You claim he’s worth a mil in ransom?” Crannigan said, looking doubtfully at Cal. “Who’d pay a million for him?”
Cal almost retorted in his own language. But instead he looked at Roland and said, in a puzzled manner, “Snebozo mucka?” Cal tapped his own forehead.
Roland sighed and shrugged. “Rikbonna forcbusca!”
“What’d you just say?” Crannigan demanded.
“He asked me if you had an injury to your head,” Roland said. “I told him I figured maybe you did.”
Crannigan scowled. “My head’s fine but yours is gonna be scattered all over the landscape if you’re bullshitting me about this. Now step on over to our camp. And one thing you oughta take away from this is you can’t sneak up on my people without me knowing, I always got lookouts keeping watch. Come on …” He pointed the Eridian rifle. “Move!”
“You want a share of the ransom, fine,” Roland said, rolling the dice, “but I don’t go with you under the gun. We can
partner up. You know you’re gonna need me—not only to talk to the boy, but also—you’re sure to run into some hell out here. None of these chuckleheads you’ve got with you now are gonna match what I could bring to a fight. You keep me at your side, I can watch your back, Scrap.”
“Or shoot me in the back,” Crannigan snorted. “Last time we met, I couldn’t have made you too happy …”
Roland shrugged. “All in good fun. I didn’t mind. I handled them.”
“Yeah—how’d you get out of that? Outrun ’em in the outrunner?”
“Dragged ’em to a Nomad with a mean streak.”
“Nomads are all mean streak.” Crannigan lowered his weapon. “Truth is, I don’t trust none of my men—so I’ll take the chance you’re more useful to me than risky. Come on, let’s go to camp.”
“Crinbonna?” Cal asked, as if puzzled.
“Cringo-ina,” Roland said, pointing toward the camp. He turned to Crannigan. “What about my outrunner? I got a Zodiac Turret too …”
“A Zodiac, huh?” Crannigan muttered. “That’ll be useful. Okay, let’s all three get in the outrunner. I’ll be on the rear gun. Behind you. So don’t get cute. Move it.”
Since coming to this planet, Zac was always a little surprised to wake up in the morning. He was surprised he hadn’t been killed in the night by … something. Any number of somethings.
But despite his foreboding, he’d slept the deep sleep of aching exhaustion. He’d spent a night in freedom, not tied up, not having to wonder if Berl was going to go mad and kill him, and this morning, stretching, looking around at his surroundings, he felt a surge of improbable optimism. The plateau he’d slept atop was about two hundred feet over the plain, a tableland rising abruptly over the rolling desert; the view, in the blue light of morning, was spectacular. It’d been worthwhile, climbing the steep trail up here with only the moonlight to guide him. It put him out of the reach of most predators—and the vista, from the cliff’s edge, was all subtle silver mist broken by islands of blue stone. To one side the moon was setting; to the other the sun was ascending over the horizon. The air was fresh and cool.
