Borderlands: The Fallen

by John Shirley

  “So you could call Gorman here?”

  “Gotta brief ’em sometime.” Crannigan looked at him with a small, ironic smile and a raised eyebrow—it seemed to hint, Don’t worry, I’m gonna set them up and take it all. Just like we planned.

  Roland gave him a faint nod. But he didn’t trust Crannigan.

  “You get close to that crash site?” Roland asked.

  “Some. We got close enough to see a couple of guys in there ahead of us—one seemed like he was getting broiled by a drifter. The other one got caught by some kind of flying drone outta the alien ship. Definitely not Eridian. Whatever that thing is, it’s not any alien artifact I’ve ever seen.”

  Gorman nodded. “We’ve established that it’s the crash site of an unknown species of extraterrestrial.”

  “How’d you get this close?” Roland asked. “Was it bullshit about how you couldn’t get here from the air?”

  “No,” Gorman said, looking at him coldly. Clearly he didn’t like Roland’s tone. “We just got a transmission that said we were clear to come down. The energy signature associated with the skybeam that knocked down our exploratory drones was gone. I thought the ‘safe to land’ transmission had come from Crannigan. Turns out it wasn’t him. We’ve been puzzling that one out. I assume it wasn’t you either.”

  “So who’s that leave?” Roland wondered aloud, glancing back toward the crash site. No one had an answer for that.

  “I see you haven’t got the kid with you,” Rosco said. “Find his body?”

  “No,” Roland said, glancing at Rans Veritas. “’Cause he’s not dead. I … dug him up. Alive. Truth is, he got out of that little hole on his own. I’ve got him stashed somewhere safe. Don’t worry about it.” There was no need to tell them anything they didn’t need to know—like about Berl or Marla.

  He looked steadily at Rans as he asked Gorman, “This lying backstabber here—do you need him for anything, Mr. Gorman? He’s not somebody you can trust. If he’s at the end of his usefulness …”

  “Do you have a problem with our dear old friend Rans?” Gorman asked coolly.

  “He hit a friend of mine in the head and dropped him in a hole, is all. A hole filled with tunnel rats. And he did it for no good reason other than pure cussedness.”

  “The boy is lying, if that’s what he told you!” Rans spat. He turned to Gorman. “You going to let this seedy road warrior threaten me? You never even hired him! You and me have a deal!”

  “Yes, well—you may be of some use to us yet, Rans.”

  “Seems to me,” Roland pointed out, “you won’t need him. I saw a scouter flying in close to that crash site. They’ll tell you anything this scumbag could.”

  Gorman nodded. “Yes, I sent two other guards to scout out the site. They may make our Rans here superfluous. We’ll see.”

  “Now look, Mr. Gorman,” Rans snarled, taking an angry step toward the exec, pointing a grimy finger at him. “You can’t take that maybe, maybe not attitude. We got a deal—”

  Gorman turned to the armored bodyguard and made a “just a little bit” sign with his thumb and forefinger. The bodyguard said, “Yes, sir.”

  He stepped up to Rans and backhanded him with a gauntleted hand—hitting him “just a little bit”—so that the schemer staggered backward, down the ramp, to fall flat on his back with a grunt of pain.

  “He could have easily killed you, Rans, with very little additional effort,” Gorman said. “Do not approach me in a threatening manner again. I’m going to tell the drones to set up camp. Keep an eye on the perimeter, Red.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the amplified voice.

  Grinning, Rosco helped Rans up. “Oughta watch your mouth, old fella.”

  Rans growled to himself and limped away, to sit pensively on a low boulder nearby, wiping blood from his lip and staring at the ground, face twitching.

  It appeared Roland would have to put up with Rans Veritas for a while longer. Two men who had earned a reckoning. And there were a lot of others to deal with out of necessity …

  This wasn’t going to be easy. But then, on Pandora, nothing was easy for long.

  Marla was trying to keep Cal contained.

  He was pacing back and forth in the cold camp they’d made, under the bemused gaze of old Berl, who was leaning against a rock, meditatively chewing a Primal Beast’s testicle.

  “Boy, you’re just burning up energy you’ll need later,” Berl said. “That’s not gonna help your daddy.”

  “He’s right,” Marla said. “We should trust Roland. He’s been reliable …”

  Cal shook his head. “It’s just that Dad is so close and we know he needs our help …”

  “If he ain’t beyond help,” the old hermit muttered.

  Marla glared at him.

  A whining noise caught her attention. Then a whooshing sound. She looked up to see something flying over. It paused—and then moved on, out of sight beyond the top of the big boulder. Was it rescue?

  Cal was already rushing out into the open and Marla was close on his heels. They stopped and stared, seeing the scouter platform descending to the path in front of them.

  The platform was an open-air flying conveyance a little over two meters in diameter, with railings around the edges and grav-pulsers on its underside. Marla had seen them before in a holo, never in person. They were a new invention, used to explore unknown territory on remote planets. The platforms couldn’t go very high—perhaps two hundred meters at the most—and weren’t particularly fast, but they were maneuverable.

  This one was occupied by two disturbingly martial-looking figures covered head to foot in armor; each held on to the railings with one gauntleted hand, the other holding a rifle balanced on the rail, pointing generally at Marla and Cal. One’s armor was tinted blue, the other silver. Both had their faces completely hidden behind helmet plasteel. They might be robots but she suspected they were corporate soldiers. On their shoulders a logo was emblazoned: ATLAS ELITE.

  Marla supposed she should be pleased to see them. They might represent rescue. But somehow …

  “Oh hey, it’s those bodyguards from Atlas,” Cal said. “I’ve seen ’em before.” He sounded uncertain about what this could mean.

  The platform settled to the ground, its whine subsiding. The figures on the scouter platform stared at them. Then in a deep, amplified voice, the man in blue armor said, “We were briefed about the boy. If he’s the one. Who are you, lady?”

  “I’m … Marla Finn. We’ve been stuck down here. We were in lifeboats from—we escaped from the Homeworld Bound.”

  “Were you authorized to use those vehicles?”

  “Authorized? It was an emergency! The ship was breaking up.”

  “These two might be useful,” said the man in blue to the man in silver. “They could have information.”

  “You here alone?” asked the man in silver, looking at Marla.

  “We’re … waiting for someone,” Marla said. “And there’s my husband too—he’s … trapped nearby. Over in the, um …”

  She pointed toward the crash site.

  The two blank faces looked at one another. Then back at Marla. The elite in blue armor said, “You two, get onto the platform. You’re coming with us.”

  “And—you’ll take us to the Study Station, or … where?” Marla asked.

  “I said, get onto the platform.”

  She hesitated. These men didn’t behave like rescuers. And there was Zac to think of. And what about Roland?

  The one in blue stepped off the platform and pointed his weapon directly at Cal. “You want me to shoot the kid?”

  “Asshole,” Cal said.

  “What’s that you said, kid?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Cal, be quiet,” Marla said. Clearly, she had no choice, she had to go with them. She decided that Berl didn’t want these men to know he was here—or he’d have come out from cover already. “Come on, Cal. We’re going with them. These men are … going to help us.�
��

  “Sure they are,” Cal snorted.

  But they got onto the platform, holding on to the rail between the two armored soldiers as it took off, veering into the sky.

  I have set up an additional observational mechanism,” said the alien. “It will give us a closer view.”

  “Yeah? Can I look through it too, somehow?” Zac asked.

  “That has been arranged. Try not to be a pain in the ass, however. I need to concentrate. Don’t be expostulating about things too much, as you people do.”

  “Do you have to be so condescending, alien? Isn’t it enough that you’re probably going to stick me in a jar with a poison gas or something?”

  “Actually I don’t use a poison gas; I merely switch off your nervous system with the simple expedient of—”

  “Honestly—I don’t want to know, if you don’t mind.”

  “It’s quite painless. You see I merely introduce a pulse of—”

  “I really, really don’t want to know.”

  “Suit yourself. Now, observe the space immediately in front of your chair.”

  The spiny object in front of him flared with lights, and the lights sparked from point to point, faster and faster, till they formed a matrix that extended itself into a kind of rectangle. It was as if he were watching a video that was created, over and over again, from one second to the next, with points of light in space itself. Like the image in a video without the screen. And the image quickly resolved into an exterior view of the debris field near the fallen alien’s body. The point of view drifted onward, passing the monitor—which was hovering out there, keeping watch—and continuing slowly over the gulch. The image was a bit warped about the edges but quite clear in the middle.

  “What if they see it and, you know, shoot at it or something?” Zac asked. “Just—out of fear that it might be an attack on them.”

  “It’s actually quite small, not much larger than your fist. It also cloaks itself, changing its appearance to match the background as it goes. It will come quite close to them … and will likely remain unnoticed.”

  The flying point of view moved toward a metallic ziggurat shape on the basin of the gulch. A ramp was extended from the graduated pyramid, and a man in red armor stood there, with another, smaller figure wearing a spray-on suit. Nearby were several other men. Zac knew none of them except—

  “Rans Veritas! There he is!”

  “You know them, then?”

  “I know that one—the oldest one there. The one limping around and waving his arms. He’s the crook who got me started on this expedition. He must’ve been playing both ends against the middle … Wait, what’s that?”

  A flying platform had entered their point of view, was hovering near the ramp, settling down. Two bulky men in tinted armor rode on it—and standing between them—

  “Cal! Marla!”

  “Who are you referring to?”

  “My wife! My son! That’s them between the canned soldiers on the platform there. You’ve gotta let me go to them. I can’t believe they’re this close and I can’t let them know I’m here …”

  “Soon, they’ll either know you’re here—or it won’t matter.”

  “Dammit, Crannigan, that’s just dumb!”

  Roland was arguing with Crannigan as the platform came in, behind him. He didn’t look at it as it came in. He was focused on Crannigan. Rans Veritas and Rosco stood behind Crannigan. Gorman and his red elite were standing at the foot of the orbiter ramp to Roland’s left.

  Roland had the Eridian shotgun in his hand as he spoke—not threatening anyone with it, but keeping it ready. “If you blast your way into that thing you’ll lose billions of dollars in retro-engineering fees! You’ll wreck it, Scrap! We got to go in with those canned soldiers of Gorman’s, use as little force as possible. That thing’s got some kind of automated defenses—we can take those out. If there’s anyone in there, we keep ’em alive that way—and we preserve all that tech.”

  Gorman was standing by, chewing his lip, as if not sure which course to take himself. His red-armored elite bodyguard stood still as a statue just behind him.

  “Too dangerous,” Crannigan insisted. “We don’t know what that thing’s capable of. It’s glowing a little more all the time—like it’s coming back online. I say we fry it from a distance, then pick up the pieces. There’ll be plenty left over.”

  “Roland!” called someone behind him

  Roland frowned, hearing Cal’s voice, and turned—stared at Cal and Marla on the platform between the armored elite guards. “What the hell! What are they doing here?” His hand tightened on his gun.

  “Oh no, not the kid again,” Rans Veritas groaned, seeing Cal.

  “We found these two gogglin’ down at the crash site,” said the canned soldier in silver.

  “Then you did well to bring them here,” Gorman said, stepping up to inspect the prisoners.

  That’s what they were. Prisoners. Roland knew it instantly—the canned soldiers had taken Cal and Marla prisoner. He knew that Atlas wouldn’t want to deal with other claims on the crash site. No matter what Marla said, they’d be afraid she’d make a claim because she was Zac’s wife. She’d told him the whole story. And that history suggested to Roland that she’d probably end up dead, in the hands of Gorman and Crannigan.

  “You’re Mrs. Finn, I think,” Gorman said, looking her over. “Somewhat the worse for wear. What can you tell us about your husband—and the crash site. Did he get there alive? Is he there still?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I lost touch with him.”

  Roland figured she didn’t want to tell Gorman what Berl had said. She knew she couldn’t trust these men.

  “You are, I think, holding something back, Mrs. Finn,” Gorman observed, smiling faintly. “I’m going to have to insist you tell us what that is.”

  She shrugged, looking at Roland. He was trying to figure out which way to jump.

  “Take her in the ship, we’ll interrogate her there,” Gorman said, as if he were telling a mover where to put a cardboard box.

  The silver-tinted canned soldier put his hand on her arm—

  Cal shoved at the man’s arm. “Back off my mom!”

  Roland smiled. Some sand, all right.

  “It’s all right, Cal,” Marla said, faintly. “Maybe … maybe they’ll help us.”

  Roland shook his head. He knew better. “Gorman—this woman and her son are friends of mine. You need me here. Leave them alone. They’re under my protection.”

  “You want to work for us, you let me call the shots, Roland,” Gorman said, turning to him—his eyes as dead as his voice.

  “Let it go, Roland,” Crannigan said.

  Roland shook his head. “No. She and the kid stay with me.”

  “You’re becoming tiresome, Roland,” Gorman said warningly.

  “You better listen to me about that ship,” Roland said, hoping to shift the conversation. “It’s idiotic to blast your way into the thing.”

  “Don’t listen to him, he’s up to something!” Rans Veritas piped up. Everyone ignored him.

  “You’ve just about convinced me to do the opposite of whatever you advise, Roland,” Gorman said. “Blue, move those two into the ship …”

  The armored elite shoved Cal and Marla off the scout platform, so they stumbled, Marla falling. Cal helped her up. He mouthed silently at Roland, Give me a gun.

  Roland shook his head. He turned to Gorman. “I’m not letting this go on. Your armored tuna cans can get me, Gorman—but not before I make you into fried executive.”

  Crannigan raised his own Eridian weapon. “Okay that’s it, you’ve bucked us enough. Get out of the way or go down, Roland!”

  Gorman licked his lips, clearly afraid of being caught in the cross fire. He backed toward the ramp. The red-tinted elite stepped in front of him.

  “That guy won’t get you up the ramp safely,” Roland said. “Not when I’ve got this weapon. Ricochet rounds. Trust me. But I’ll tell y
ou what. I’ve got a score to settle with Crannigan here. You let us duke it out. You go along with whoever ends up breathing.”

  Gorman paused, and looked thoughtful. “That would give me some satisfaction. I’m sick of you both. But hand to hand. Knives. I don’t want to have to duck stray rounds.”

  Roland nodded. “Works for me.”

  Crannigan hesitated—then nodded.

  Gorman and his red armored elite took their places at Roland’s left, near the ramp to the orbiter; the other two canned soldiers stood near the platform, on either side of Cal and Marla, lined up to watch the fight.

  Roland figured he couldn’t trust Gorman to abide by any deal. But this would win him time, get rid of Crannigan—if he came out of the fight ahead—and he knew how watching a fight could hypnotize men, for a few moments, get them to let down their guards. He might be able to grab Gorman and get him, Cal, and Marla on the platform, use it for an escape. The armored elite wouldn’t shoot at him once he had Gorman. They were conditioned to protect him.

  First, he had to set it up—get them off guard. Which meant taking down Crannigan.

  He tossed his gun aside, trusting Crannigan would do the same thing.

  Crannigan stared at him. He looked at his gun. Then pride forced the issue. Crannigan dropped his gun too.

  Roland and Crannigan each drew a combat knife from their boot sheaths and crouched, facing one another. Crannigan grinned. “I guess we do have unfinished business at that, Roland. Let’s do this thing.”

  Rosco and Rans Veritas were behind Crannigan, backed up a few strides. Keep the fight circling, Roland thought. He’d take down Crannigan first, then he’d rush past him, grab Gorman. With luck.

  Crannigan feinted at him—the knife blade slashed at Roland’s face. He evaded it easily, stepped back, then feinted in return to keep Crannigan from rushing him.

  “What is this barbaric idiocy?” Marla demanded, watching with disbelief as the two men circled one another.

  “You’ve already explained it,” Gorman said, amused. “Barbaric idiocy. But it is entertaining …”