Borderlands_Gunsight

by John Shirley

  Brick nodded expressionlessly, watching the girl.

  “Tyno said he was going to let me go,” said Feena, sucking juice off her fingers. “But then just when he was going to take me back to our settlement, and he was arguing with his boss, well right then the Reamus people came and they shot a lot of the first robbers . . .”

  Mordecai stared at her. “Tyno? You said that before . . . Why do I know that name . . .” He remembered, then. “Tyno Ripper?”

  “Yes, that’s his name . . .”

  “I see. I know his dad. Well, well. And Tyno Ripper was going to let you go . . .”

  “Tyno, he’s the only nice one. He got mad when the Reamers threatened to cut my tongue out and he tried to hit those guys but they knocked him out with their gun.” She made a gesture imitating someone hitting a man with a gun butt.

  “But he’s still alive . . .”

  “He was when I got away.”

  “Okay. You got family in those trucks?”

  She frowned. Shrugged. Then reluctantly said, “Yes. One. My uncle Weeble.”

  Mordecai looked at Brick. He was already picking up the rocket launcher. He said, “I’ll use this, and that Bandit outrider.”

  Mordecai was interested in hitting the caravan—maybe for a different reason than Brick. Mordecai’s thought was that the caravan, taken over, could be used to get entry into Tumessa . . .

  “Brick!” Mordecai called, as Brick climbed down from the outcropping. “Let’s try to keep at least two of those trucks intact. And remember—there’s prisoners! We gotta separate them out from the . . .”

  But Brick had disappeared behind the rocks.

  Mordecai sighed. “Come on, kid. I’ll introduce you to a nice little robot. You can hang out with him till we get back. Wait in the camp and he’ll play games with you. You teach him the games. If he talks in a woman’s voice, just ignore him.”

  • • •

  Mordecai started the outrunner as Bloodwing flapped down to roost on his shoulder. They had to hurry to catch up with Brick.

  The big Vault Hunter had already driven off in the outrider, heading in a beeline to intersect the small caravan of trucks. The Reamus Reamers passed the outcropping and were still headed toward Tumessa.

  Mordecai jammed after Brick in the outrunner, trying to raise him on the ECHO. “Brick? You there? Don’t just blow up those trucks! We need ’em!” And he didn’t want to have to give all his med hypos to a bunch of crippled prisoners. But he knew he would if he had to. Maybe Daphne was right, maybe he was too softhearted.

  Brick fired a shell from the outrider and Mordecai breathlessly watched. The shell exploded just in front of the lead truck. The truck hit the blast crater, fishtailed in the smoke, and turned over on its side. The other two trucks had to skid to a stop to avoid hitting it.

  “Now we’re up to our necks in this mess,” Mordecai said. Bloodwing made a sound of agreement. “This is gonna take some precision shooting, to separate out the bad from the good.” He glanced at Bloodwing. “Hit the air, girl. See what you can do, but don’t get shot down.”

  Bloodwing squawked and leapt into the air, flapping rapidly upward.

  Men were spilling out of the trucks, some of them firing at Brick, who was driving around to the far side of the fallen truck. Brick’s outrider pulled up short—Mordecai couldn’t see what he was doing after that.

  The sun was higher now, bringing little warmth with it, but casting long shadows across the tundra from the stopped vehicles and the urgent men around them.

  Mordecai drove around behind the third truck—bullets whistled close overhead as Reamers fired at him; assault rifle rounds thunked into the armor of the outrunner.

  Mordecai swung around out of their line of fire, pulling up in the spot that looked like it had the most cover, which was provided by the parked trucks themselves. He jumped out of the outrunner, assault rifle in hand, and had to use it almost before his feet touched the ground. Two men were coming at him from the back of the truck, clearly Reamus’s bunch. One of them was a hulking bare-chested Bruiser Psycho, scalp bisected with a high, thin Mohawk. The goggled Bruiser was firing a rocket launcher at him. The shell went high, but Mordecai’s return fire didn’t. He sent three bullets in a tight pattern into the Bruiser’s head. Blood splashed over the Mohawk and the Bruiser staggered back, flailing and falling.

  The other Reamer was a tall, skinny thug with black teeth; he was firing an Eridian rifle and Mordecai felt a burn on his right cheek from the nearness of the energy pulse.

  Should’ve gotten my shield working . . .

  The skinny thug had a glowing shield—but Mordecai knew a trick shot for this situation.

  The Reamer went to one knee to steady his aim and Mordecai used that moment to aim, too, very carefully. He fired a single round from the assault rifle and it went where he sent it: right into the muzzle and down the barrel of the Eridian rifle. The gun exploded, most of its force going backward under the man’s shield.

  The thug screamed and then exploded into flaming hunks of flesh that flew and hissed down like fireworks. Mordecai sidestepped to avoid the man’s head as it fell, trailing smoke, close by.

  Mordecai was already running, getting close to the truck. He heard shots from the front of the stymied caravan and the bellows of men arguing, then someone giving an order: “Stop being cowards! Get over there! Rush him!”

  They weren’t talking about Mordecai. He glanced back from the rear corner of the truck and saw men charging toward the fallen vehicle where Brick was firing a rifle across the overturned cab.

  The four men, firing their weapons, raced toward Brick, howling as they came—and Brick ducked out of sight.

  He’d left his rifle atop the truck, was running now—so Mordecai figured—to come around the other side as the Reamers charged toward the place they’d last seen him . . .

  Despite his massiveness, Brick could move amazingly fast when he wanted to. He came thundering like a runaway train up behind the men charging him. Suddenly he ducked down and grabbed a Reamer by the ankles. He pulled the man off his feet and spun him—the thug screeching—in a hard circle, like swinging a chain mace, slamming the man’s head into the startled face of the Reamer turning toward him. That face vanished in a welter of blood and smashed bone.

  The third man, though, had a bead on Brick’s own face with a powerful-looking rifle.

  But Mordecai was already firing at the Reamer’s torso. He wasn’t sure he could hit him in the head from this distance. The thug’s shield held against Mordecai’s bullets, but the Reamer was knocked off balance and the shield didn’t help him against Brick’s massive fists. Brick closed with the man, slamming the Reamer’s head from his shoulders.

  Bloodwing squawked a warning overhead, and Mordecai, reloading as he turned, spun around to fire at the Reamer rushing at him. His bullets caught the man in his open mouth so the thug was jerked backward, the Reamer’s shotgun blast going harmlessly straight up into the air.

  Mordecai turned again and saw that the man with the shield who’d been beheaded . . . seemed to be walking anyway. Then Mordecai realized Brick was holding the corpse up so that the dead man’s still-functioning shield could absorb the bullets coming at him.

  Mordecai chuckled. “Wish I was strong enough to do that.”

  Brick ran at the shooter, coming to grips with him out of Mordecai’s sight, behind the nearest truck. Mordecai heard a single, short, piteous shriek.

  Mordecai moved around to look in the open back of the truck. A group of people were chained up back there. He saw no guards, no one with a gun. Probably a lot of the Reamers had died in the fight with Jasper’s men.

  “You got a Tyno Ripper in there?” Mordecai called.

  After a moment’s silence, someone called out, “That’d be me.”

  INTERLUDE

  Marcus Tells a Tale to a Captive Audience Part Two

  “But—what about Feena?” asked Larna.

  Marcus stared at the g
irl. “What?” His voice was getting a little hoarse from telling the story.

  “Feena. They left her with the robot. Did it kill her?”

  “The robot? No. They don’t kill people.”

  “I’ve heard of Claptraps killing people.”

  “Well, they don’t usually and it didn’t, anyway, Larna. So, like I was saying . . .” Marcus broke off, frowning. “Where’s that tall skinny kid? That boy Skeros?”

  “Tell me more about Feena,” Larna said, staring fixedly into the dying embers of the fire. He’d been talking for some hours. The night had worn on, and the fire had worn down.

  Two of the boys had gone to sleep. The big-eyed blond boy had stayed awake, clutching his knees and listening, gaping and head cocked, to every word. Marcus pointed at him. “You! Where’d that Skeros go?”

  “Um—I don’t know!” the boy protested. “He just got up. Maybe he went to pee.”

  “Hmmpf. Maybe. But he’s got to do it where I can keep an eye on him.”

  “You want to watch him pee?”

  “No, smart aleck! He can stand with his back to me! But—oh, never mind.” He looked at his own robot—which had gone into sleep mode. “Useless hunk of junk. Should’ve been keeping watch.”

  For that matter, how had the boy slipped away without Marcus noticing him? Marcus wasn’t sure. Cunning little devil.

  Marcus stood up and stalked past the children. He scanned the compound, looking for intruders. He heard a clinking sound from the junk piles at the back, and padded over there, hoping to catch the rascal in the act. Skeros was probably stealing something. Shouldn’t have trusted these damned kids.

  He approached the piles of junk, keeping low, glaring around—and seeing no one.

  There was a clunking sound from his left—and someone shouted, “Duck!”

  Instinctively, Marcus followed the suggestion. A hatchet whistled over his head and stuck in the fence to his right.

  He turned, saw the dark silhouette of a man—a man with a triple-fin Mohawk. A Psycho.

  And Marcus had come back here without a weapon in his hands. He cursed himself for a fool and sidestepped to the left, just in time to avoid the blast of an Eridian pistol. The pulse flashed by him, lighting up the yard as it passed and searing into the fence.

  Someone screamed and then staggered into the thin moonlight. The Psycho was swaying, within reach. He was bare-chested, much tattooed, face hidden in a goggled gas mask. A ragged metal spike was protruding from his belly. Blood ran along the spike and dripped onto the ground.

  Skeros stepped out from behind the Psycho. “Good thing you’ve got those old meat skewers back there on the junk pile. Make a good spear.”

  “Yeah.”

  Marcus nodded approvingly. The boy had skewered the Psycho from behind—with an actual skewer.

  The Psycho gurgled, took a step, dropped its Eridian pistol, tried to pull the improvised spear from its belly, and moaned in pain.

  Marcus reached out, grabbed the bloody skewer point, and twisted it, saying, “Here, let me help.”

  “Don’t,” the Psycho squeaked. “That hurts.”

  “Yeah. I thought it would. Listen—why are you in my compound and who sent you? Tell me the truth right now, or I’ll give this thing another really good twist.”

  “Urk. Ow. Don’t! Flesh-stick sent me!” The Psycho pulled off his mask and dropped it—his face was covered in squiggly tattoos. Blood was seeping from the corners of his mouth. “I’m all bleedy and supposed to be you all bleedy and not me, that’s all backsidedown!”

  Marcus pondered. “Flesh-stick. Think I heard something about him. Psycho who kidnaps people—sells ’em to that guy Reamus, right? That Flesh-stick?”

  “How many other guys go by Flesh-stick?” Skeros asked, thoughtfully.

  Reasonable question. Also an irritating one. Marcus ignored it. “Why’d Flesh-stick send you here?”

  “Because . . . was . . . tracking kids . . . for experiments . . . Reamus wanted some kids . . . No one watching these . . .”

  “Experiments? What kind?”

  “Reamus—his slag experiments. For Hyperion. Mutants . . . Please help me! Take the spear out . . . I’ll hardly kill you at all if you take it out!”

  “It’s a skewer. Aren’t you Psychos the ones always threatening to skewer us and roast us alive and stuff? I’d think you’d be right at home with it. But okay. I’ll take it out.”

  Marcus took firm hold of the skewer, squeezing hard to get a grip through the film of blood, and yanked it out of the Psycho. The intruder screamed and went to his knees, clutching the hole in his belly.

  “Got it right out,” Marcus said. “Now you can have it back.”

  He swung the skewer and knocked the Psycho square in the head. The body sagged and Marcus tossed the skewer onto a junk pile. Then he bent down and picked up the Eridian pistol.

  He looked at Skeros. “What were you doing back here?”

  “Heard a sound. From the noise—I thought it was something coming over the back fence.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Skeros shrugged. “Always deal with things myself.”

  Marcus grunted. “Not a bad way to be. But you shoulda told me.”

  He looked at the pistol. It was worth some money. “You can search the Psycho’s body. Any money on it, you can have. As for this weapon . . . maybe you earned it. Could be you saved my life. But I’m gonna have to think about if I want to give it to you. Now get back to the fire. We’ll toss this hunk of rancid Psycho flesh over the back fence later. Right now, I’m gonna finish my damned story.”

  His fists soaked in blood from the other four guards he’d killed, Brick stomped around to the back of the truck. Mordecai noticed he had a couple of bullet holes in him. One in his right shoulder, the other . . .

  “Brick—you got shot right in the heart?”

  “Naw. Over the heart. Didn’t get through the muscle.”

  But blood was running down from both wounds. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

  Brick shrugged. “Sure.”

  “Yeah, well, damn, Brick.” Mordecai shook his head. “I’ve got some Zed meds in the outrunner. I’ll get ’em for you.”

  “More people to kill in there?” Brick pointed into the back of the truck.

  “No, not them, Brick,” Mordecai said hastily. “They’re friends of Feena’s. Prisoners.”

  Brick looked in at the prisoners—who shrank back from him. They were all handcuffed to metal rings built into the truck bed. “Feena’s friends? Why they still chained up?”

  “I was just looking for the keys . . .” Mordecai checked the bodies, found the sonic key for the cuffs in the pants pocket of the dead Bruiser.

  He brought the key to the back of the truck, pointed it at the prisoners, and activated it; the key warbled, then the handcuffs opened automatically and fell clattering to the metal floor. The prisoners groaned collectively in relief.

  “Come on out,” Mordecai said. “You’re free to go. Take one of these trucks to go home.”

  “There’s more, in the other two trucks,” said a young man, climbing out of the truck and blinking in the morning light. It was the one who’d spoken up earlier, Tyno Ripper. The wind picked up his long hair and draped it over his face, so that he had to swipe it away from his dark eyes. Haphazardly bearded, wearing a skag-leather fighting suit, he was lean but otherwise shaped like his father; like a Pandoran Nomad.

  The other prisoners climbed after him and looked around. Men and women, a couple of children, of every sort. One of the released prisoners, a lanky, gaunt man in a ragtag fighting suit, took the sonic key from Mordecai and trotted over to the overturned truck, to see how the prisoners in it had fared. Most of the others wandered off to find a place to relieve themselves. A few stood by: ragged, thin-faced, grimy men, women, and children staring at Brick and Mordecai wonderingly, hands shading their eyes against sunlight bouncing off the tundra’s patches of thin snow.

  Mordecai
got a med hypo from his outrunner and brought it to Brick, who took it the indifferent way someone else would’ve accepted a drink at a party. The wounds sparkled, as the medicine dissolved the bullets into energy, and used the energy to begin cell repair. Within moments, Brick was healed.

  “There was a little girl, who slipped off, not much more than an hour ago,” Tyno said. “You see her?”

  Brick pointed at the outcropping. “She’s there. She’s okay. She kinda sent us here.”

  “You her uncle?” Mordecai asked.

  Tyno shook his head. “No, that’s him.”

  He pointed at a beefy, red-faced man running hands through his thinning hair. The man looked up at Mordecai. “Hey. You got anything to drink?”

  “You can have the guards’ water,” Mordecai said.

  “I mean liquor. You got anything to drink?”

  Mordecai shook his head. So that was Feena’s uncle. He winced, looking at the man. He’d been drinking too much, himself, before Jasper snatched Daphne.

  Am I going to turn into that bloated wreck someday?

  • • •

  The prisoners now had access to the dead guards’ water, food, weapons, medicine, fuel, and one truck. But they didn’t have much time. Brick had smashed several of the slavers’ weapons, and one he’d shoved up into a Reamer from below, probably without any irony, and that gun wasn’t wanted by anyone. But there were several others.

  “Chances are this fight was observed from Tumessa,” Mordecai said, talking to Tyno and the gaunt man who’d set the other prisoners free. He glanced at the sky, where he’d sent Bloodwing to watch for trouble. So far she was flying in lazy circles, meaning no indication of danger. He looked at the gaunt man. “You people need to get in this truck; just pile everyone in back with your supplies and head back to your settlement fast as you can get there. Put some people with guns close to the rear in back; a couple more up front. With any luck, you should get there alive.”