Borderlands_Gunsight

by John Shirley

  Mordecai didn’t like the damn thing being up there. It was always watching, watching, endlessly watching . . . unblinkingly staring down at everyone. He’d come out here to get some privacy and peace and quiet. After that gigantic killing spree alongside Roland, taking out Gynella and her hordes, Mordecai needed to retrench, rethink, get a new angle on things—without being watched all the time. And if it wasn’t Handsome Jack eyeballing him it was—

  “Morrrrrrdecaiiiiiiii!” Daphne called, from the bedroom, her voice uncharacteristically honeyed. “I want my Loveygun to come back in here and relax with me!”

  Loveygun . . . Relax.

  He knew what that meant. If he went into that room, she’d be waiting in bed, looking insanely sexy; he wouldn’t be able to resist, and they’d make love till he was exhausted and more or less in a passive “anything you want, baby” state. And then she’d start in on the Big Plan again.

  And then? Then he’d hem and haw and say, Sure baby, tomorrow, we’ll start tomorrow, or the next day, but maybe we should have a simple little mission first and raise money to pay for some of this stuff you wanta do and then . . .

  And then she’d say, You’re putting me off again . . . Loveygun. With a little venom of sarcasm added to the “loveygun.”

  Mordecai sighed. Months earlier, he and Daphne’d had to kill a dozen or so Marauders and a Bruiser to get control of this tower. Once upon a time, it had belonged to the Dahl Corporation, some kind of transmission station. Right now what it offered was good defensibility; a clear vantage of the craggy land spread out below. And it offered a large, comfortable bedroom. But she wasn’t going to get around him that way, not this time.

  “I don’t have time for any . . . for anything!” he shouted, over his shoulder. He took a step toward the door, hesitating. “I’m gonna go to Sanctuary, Daph, and hit the mission board—maybe see if Roland’s got something for me. Some kinda Crimson work . . . And . . .”

  “And what?”

  There she was, glaring at him, outside the door from the balcony to the bedroom, hugging herself against the cold.

  It was funny—a sharp, cold wind started up the instant Daphne came out on the balcony, just as if she’d brought it there herself. She was wearing a sheer black negligee, black leather boots, and . . . nothing else. Except of course for the slim daggers she hid in those boots. Her long, straight black hair snapped in the wind like a pirate flag; her eyes flashed like dark gems. She was hugging herself in that vulnerable little-girl way—but she was glaring at him. It was a pretty unnerving glare—sure, she was small, curvy, pretty, but on many planets she was known as Kuller the Killer, one of the most prolific assassins to work for interplanetary organized crime. She’d retired from that life, to live here with Mordecai . . . but Kuller the Killer was still there somewhere inside her and sometimes Mordecai wondered if she might not get mad enough to let Kuller kill him.

  And that razor edginess was part of what he loved about her . . .

  “Baby,” he said, “I want to make you happy, but I just do not want to start any big organizations that require employees or any of that stuff. I mean, that’s just not me!”

  He had to look away from her—in that negligee, she looked smokin’ hot standing there and he didn’t want to give in.

  “I’m going,” he said firmly. “Just for a trip—into Sanctuary. You can come, or not. But I’m going, I’m gonna see Roland, and maybe earn a little scratch and some ammo and supplies and . . . and a present for you. How about that jeweled .200-caliber HyperHawk pistol you were looking at, with the diamond inlaid grip and—”

  “You’re not wriggling out of this with presents, Mordecai! We need to create a sanctuary of our own, not hang out at that one! I’m planning . . . well . . . I think we should have a baby!”

  It was his turn to exclaim, “What!” And even Bloodwing squawked something that sounded close to that.

  “Why not have a baby?”

  “On Pandora? This hellhole is no place to raise a—”

  “People do it, in some of the settlements! The place needs to be civilized! Remember those people at Bloodrust Corners—”

  “And remember what they went through keeping their kids alive! It’s crazy, Daph!”

  Her eyes narrowed and she hugged herself tighter against the cold. “Okay. You go to Sanctuary. I’m not going with you. I might be here when you get back—and I might not. You take the smaller outrunner. And we’ll see. But you better think hard about it on this little party trip of yours—”

  “It’s not a party trip, dammit!”

  “Yeah, right! You’re going to see that bitch Moxxi. She never did give up on you, and she wants you back in her clutches!”

  Mordecai rolled his eyes. “Don’t start with Moxxi again! I’m not going to see Moxxi! I mean—I might stop in her place for a drink but . . .”

  “Like there’s only one place to drink in that town?”

  “Hey, she’s an old friend of mine—but a drink is all it’ll be—” Stupid to say anything about stopping in to see Moxxi; should’ve known Daphne’d take it all wrong. “Seriously—”

  “You are flat out full of shit, Mordecai. If you’re leaving, and going there without me—you’re going to see that whore Moxxi! I know it!”

  “That is just bullshit, Daph! I told you, you could come with me, I just want to talk to Roland, check the mission board—”

  But she’d already gone inside. He almost followed her . . . then growled to himself, snatched up the rifle, and walked to the other end of the balcony. Bloodwing fluttered down onto his shoulder as he descended on the exterior elevator platform to the ground outside the tower’s base. Reaching the bottom, he glanced around the perimeter—no enemies handy. He should probably send Bloodwing up to look around, or maybe check the area scanners . . . No. He just wanted out of here right now, before he weakened. He had to make a statement, let the woman know he wasn’t clay to be molded by Daphne Kuller. He was his own man, dammit.

  Mordecai turned to the two parked outrunners, went to the slightly smaller one, tossed the rifle in the back, checked the ammo supply and fuel charge, then jumped in, started it up, and headed out, Bloodwing clinging to his right shoulder.

  He sped up the raw dirt track that wound toward the main road. That road would eventually take him to the settlement of Sanctuary—a curious place, built on a gigantic flying mining-company craft, which was now grounded, settled into the mountains . . .

  Maybe that’s where he and Daphne should be living. Sure, Moxxi had a place there but then “Mad Moxxi” had lots of places she could be. She was still setting up coliseum show fights as well as running a bar. Moxxi might not even be in town. Maybe he and Daphne could have her nest right there in Sanctuary. But—a child? It made his head spin to imagine it. He, Mordecai . . . changing diapers?

  He snorted to himself, and slammed down on the accelerator, so that Bloodwing had to dig her claws into his shoulder to hold on against the wind.

  He was nearly to the main road when the call came on the outrunner’s ECHO comm system. “Mordecai? We’re not done!” It was Daphne, sounding pretty mad that he’d done exactly what he’d said he was going to do. She’d probably expected him to buckle under as usual and come back to bed.

  “Look, Daphne, I told you—”

  “If you don’t come back right now,” interrupted her crackling voice on the ECHO system, “I’ll come after you and we’ll discuss this right out in the middle of skagland! I’m not giving you up to that bitch Moxxi! I’ll see her dead first!”

  “I’m not going to even see Moxxi!” he shouted, bending toward the ECHO. “I told you what I’m gonna do! Okay, I promise you that I won’t even go into her place for a drink. You want to come, then come, and we’ll make a night of it in Sanctuary, we can see Roland, have a few drinks—”

  “And that’s another thing, if this is just an excuse for more drinking, Mordecai—”

  “Oh—you know what? Go screw a Tunnel Rat!” he snarled.
And he turned the comm system off.

  He had an uncomfortable twisty feeling inside, when he did that. It wasn’t good security to be out of touch with her. Then he chuckled and shook his head.

  There was nothing to worry about; it wasn’t as if Kuller the Killer couldn’t handle herself.

  He got to the main road, turned onto it, then slowed—and looked back toward the tower, which was now more than a kilometer back. He figured if she was following, she’d thrown on her fighting togs and was jumping into the outrunner right now.

  Ah—there it was. He could see the rooster tail of dust as her outrunner started away from the tower after him.

  Well, he wasn’t going to meekly sit here waiting for her. She could bloody well follow him to Sanctuary. They’d hook back up there; he’d wait for her at Roland’s.

  Mordecai started down the road, tooling along, not too fast, so it didn’t look like he was trying to leave her behind, but not too slow, either. His head was thumping from the booze . . . damn, why’d she let him drink in the morning?

  Three minutes or so passed. The road unreeled past him, the wind sighed.

  Then Bloodwing croaked something that sounded like a warning.

  Mordecai heard the first explosion from the direction of the tower. From his home.

  He hit the brakes hard, the outrunner spinning and stopping in its own cloud of dust. Wiping dust from his goggles, he could see Bandit vehicles, small in the distance, but for sure three Marauder technicals closing in on a smoking wreck—Daphne’s outrunner, overturned. It was charred, looked like it had been blasted with some kind of rocket launcher.

  A shard of ice stabbed his heart.

  No sign of Daphne at the wreck—except the bloody bodies of the three dead men she’d left behind. They lay sprawled a few paces from her outrunner.

  Mordecai stood by the overturned, smoking wreck of her outrunner, scowling as Bloodwing, scouting, circled high overhead. He’d already inspected the wreck closely, but walked around it again anyway, peering into it from another angle. Daphne’s body simply wasn’t there, and he couldn’t see any blood on the wreckage. She’d probably jumped clear when the blast hit the outrunner—her reflexes were matchless. And then there were those three dead Crazed Marauders, two shot through the foreheads, one with his neck slashed to the bone. That was Daphne’s work, all right.

  But she’d come out here into the wastelands in a hurry, chasing him, tunnel-visioned on catching up with him—and she’d been caught by surprise. She’d probably only brought a pistol and her knives. She might’ve been stunned, too. So she’d only killed three of the bastards.

  It was quiet out here, now, just the sound of the wind . . . and no Daphne. No surviving Bandits.

  But the breeze shifted and suddenly he caught a whiff of something distinct in the air. A sharp tang he’d smelled once before. X-70. A knockout gas.

  They’d taken her . . . probably alive.

  But where?

  He went back to his own outrunner, jumped in, flipped on the ECHO comm system, dialed it to top output, and spoke into the mic. “Daphne? You read me? Anybody?”

  A few moments of crackle, then a gristly, chuckling voice came through. “Yo. Vault Hunter!”

  He hit respond on the ECHO comm system. “Who’s this?”

  “We got your little plaything! She’s still alive, for now!” came the gristly voice.

  “Plaything? She killed three of your men. And which particular crabworm’s bait are you, anyway?”

  “My name’s Jasper.”

  “Jasper . . . the boss over in Gunsight? I heard of you. Why’d you grab the woman?”

  “Maybe I want ransom.”

  “Then maybe you should ask for it! What I’ve got you can have, but if you hurt her, even slightly, I’ll blow your tiny little brains out of your big ugly skull!”

  The voice chuckled. “I was pulling your leg about the ransom. The kind of money you have? Why, I earn that while I’m takin’ a nap. Naw. I did some looking around for the right guy . . . and you’re the guy for the job. I want you to do it—and I don’t want any argument about it.”

  “Why didn’t you just hire me like anyone else?”

  “I heard there’s jobs you won’t do. You got some kinda, what they call it—scruples? And this one . . . this one is big, anyhow. Money probably isn’t enough motivation.”

  “You give her to me, I’ll do a job for you! But I need to see her—now! Right goddamn now!”

  “Oh, she’s almost here in Gunsight by now—they’re flying her in, bringing her in on a Buzzard. She’s out cold, but she’ll be okay. You’re gonna have to come here, to me. That’s all there is to it. Your little bitch cost me three good men. You’re lucky I don’t feed her to Bigjaws.”

  Mordecai had heard about Bigjaws—supposed to be a really, really humongous Badass Psycho who only ate human flesh, raw, victims devoured alive. Bigjaws was supposed to be chained up somewhere in Gunsight by the town boss—this certain sneaking son of a rakk hive named Jasper who was going to pay for this, all of it, sooner or later . . .

  “So I’m lucky you don’t feed her to Bigjaws?” Mordecai said. Bloodwing, flapping down to his shoulder, cawed raspily at that. “You hurt one hair on her head . . . if anyone even bruises her . . . if anybody gets physical with her in any way, shape, or form . . . if anyone so much as cracks one of her fingernails . . . you’ll wish you were fed to Bigjaws, pal. I promise you!”

  “Ho ho! I heard you had nerve! That’s half the reason I want you for this job.”

  Mordecai’s hands fisted. “Just make sure she’s comfortable, Jasper! Very, very comfortable, till I get there—”

  “You’ve got the crazy idea you can dictate terms to me, Mordecai? But if you want—”

  “I want you to shut up and listen! Make sure she’s warm and safe and well fed. Not a scratch on her! You understand? Not a scratch. I’m coming to Gunsight—right now. You hearing me?!” He bellowed the rest of it. “Right . . . now!”

  Mordecai cut the connection, and, grinding his teeth, he gunned the outrunner off to the northwest.

  • • •

  Daphne woke with a throbbing head and a ringing in her ears. She looked around, found she was lying on a cot, in a jail cell. Bars all the way across one wall, a sliding barred gate. A toilet, a washbasin, a light, and nothing else.

  She sat up, wincing. She checked herself over—first, to make sure they’d taken all her weapons. They were all gone, even the boot-sheathed knives. Physically she seemed intact, unmolested. No damage but the bruises she’d gotten jumping from the outrunner. She stood up, stretched, went to the sink, got a drink of water, splashed her face, and then went to try the barred door. She pulled on it with all her strength, hoping for a rusty lock. Nope. It was locked good.

  “Hey!” she yelled, down the empty hallway. “Hey, where’s the damn concierge around here?!”

  A tall, barrel-chested Marauder slammed open a metal door and tromped down to her cell to glare at her. He was standing just out of reach—but she could smell him. He was wearing dusty yellow coveralls, a pistol on his left hip, a submachine gun on a strap over his right shoulder. His eyes were almost impossibly close together, his weak chin spiny with a thin beard.

  “You the concierge of this establishment?” Daphne asked. “I want to complain about my accommodations! First thing, this room just doesn’t cut it. I’ll need a suite—make it the penthouse suite. I always have a room with a king-sized bed, a walk-in closet, and a hot tub. I need the keys to the door, naturally. And have whatever’s the chef’s special sent up. Now, open the door.”

  He gave her a nasty grin, and she saw his teeth were dark green. “You think you’re funny or something, girly, that it? These are the best ’commodations we got for you. It’s this or the skag pit.”

  She shot him a dirty look. Her idea was to nudge him into overconfidence, or anger. Get him to step close. Then she’d grab the pistol—the strap on the SMG would make it too hard to extrica
te from him, but she could blow his brains out with that autopistol, and then reach through the bars to take the cell door keys off his body . . .

  Only, she didn’t see any keys on him. Suppose they weren’t in his pockets, either? The shot would bring more of these scum, and she’d still be locked in here.

  Conceivably, if he got close enough, she could kill him with her bare hands. It’d be kind of hard to do through bars, but maybe a couple of stiff fingers jammed hard into the eye sockets, right into his brain? Tricky . . . Still, he was stepping a little closer now. So maybe—

  Then someone else came through the door at the end of the hall. “Volto! Move back from that cage, you fool!” shouted a figure striding to the cell. He was shorter, bulkier, given heft by a heavy coat, and a lot of armor and shielding gear. He had the narrowed eyes, thin lips of a Nomad. She’d heard there was a trend for Nomads to put aside their lonely, wandering ways and sign on with warlords and town bosses as commanders—the Nomads were capable men, fairly smart, deadly.

  Volto the Marauder had stepped quickly back, out of reach, and the Nomad didn’t come close to the cage. “If it was up to me,” the Nomad said, his voice a rumble, “this woman would be chained to the wall, and kept sedated till Jasper decides what to do with her. She killed three men like she was swatting bugs! What I heard, she’s Kuller the Killer herself.”

  Volto blinked in surprise. “What—you kiddin’, Ripper? This little critter of a woman here?”

  “That’s Commander Ripper to you, Volto, and no I’m not kidding. Stay away from her. Stay wayyy out of reach! Don’t listen to anything she says to you, either! My guess is, another five seconds, I’d have come in here and found you dead.”

  “What! Me—dead?” Volto gawped at Daphne and took an extra step back. “She got a gun in there?”

  “No, you rockhead, she’s got the training that . . . oh forget it. Just don’t get near her!” And Commander Ripper cleared his throat and spat on the floor.

  “Nice touch,” Daphne said, looking at the spit on the floor. “You guys have class.”