by John Shirley
She glared back at it, thinking things over.
There hadn’t been any word from Mordecai lately, except for a few whispered words, a brief message conveyed by Ripper, as he’d pretended to come in on a security inspection. Ripper slipped a gun under her pillow as he blocked the view of the camera with his body, all the while loudly warning her not to try anything or there’d be the devil to pay.
The whispered words had been, Says he’s coming, but just in case . . . Best I can do.
Just in case . . . he didn’t come. Mordecai was worried he wouldn’t make it back. Maybe he was already dead. She didn’t think she could bear being cooped up under observation here anymore. And chances were, anyhow, Mordecai wasn’t coming back before the deadline that prick Jasper had given her. So . . .
She took a deep breath, stood up, and walked to the video screen across from the bed. “Jasper? Or whoever he’s got watching me. I want him here. I have made up my mind . . .”
Almost a minute passed, as she waited, staring into the digital maelstrom, listening to white noise . . .
Then the screen flicked and Jasper’s image appeared, smiling at her. “So—you’ve come around?”
“That’s right. Anyway I want to talk about it. In person.”
“Very well. I’ll come up there in a few minutes. With a heavily armed escort, of course.”
She shrugged. “Of course.”
His image vanished—replaced by a mildly erotic film shot of two people floating in an orbital capsule, locked in a weightless embrace.
Daphne snorted and turned the screen off. Then she walked calmly over to the bed and sat down to wait, careful to sit within reach of the gun under the pillow.
Aware that she was probably still under surveillance, Daphne tried her best to look calm and collected. She hoped they weren’t monitoring her pulse rate. It was hard to just sit there, trying to look relaxed, when her heart rate was up so high.
Was she making a mistake? Should she wait for Mordecai? Maybe she should. Maybe . . .
The door began to open and her body made the decision for her. The door’s movement spurred her and she was like a spring suddenly uncoiling. Her left hand slid under the pillow, brought the gun out; she clasped it in both hands, the index finger of her right slipping over the trigger as her thumb switched off the safety. All this happened smoothly, the product of countless instances of professional gun handling.
Then she was stalking toward the partly opened door—where she saw several startled faces. Jasper was in the back; two other gunmen, in Jasper’s livery, were in front, raising their weapons.
She was already squeezing off a burst of bullets, slamming one in the forehead, the other in the chest. The one she hit in the chest was protected by a shield, but he staggered back into Jasper, who was knocked over—and the three gunmen behind him fired at her, she fired back, but Jasper was shouting for the door to be closed.
“Dump her!” he screamed. “Dump her!”
She rushed toward the door, turning sideways to fit through, feeling a stabbing thump in her right hip, bullets slashing close to her neck, expecting death at any given millisecond . . .
Then the door slammed in her face.
She collided with it, cursing, biting back a sob, her back arching with pain—she’d taken a bullet in the meat of her right upper leg, on the side. Panting, she turned her back to the door, checked the clip on the gun—there was half a clip left and another one was taped to the grip. Her leg was streaming blood. The pain burned and throbbed but it felt like the bullet had missed the bone. She was lucky it hadn’t broken her leg; lucky another bullet hadn’t cut her jugular or blown through her heart, her head . . .
The thought that she’d been lucky vanished, instantly, when she realized that the floor was tilting. She was being dumped toward Bigjaws.
She thought of trying to renegotiate with Jasper, but it was too late—she’d killed one of his men and tried to kill him and the bed was sliding down the tilting floor, falling along with the chair and the table and the wine jug and the glass.
She tried to grab at the upper edge of the tilted floor, but it was out of reach and then she was sliding, falling—onto her back.
Daphne lay on the overturned mattress, the wind knocked out of her. She took a gasping breath and with it came a smell, a terrible odor as if death itself had exhaled in her face.
Time for Plan B.
She gagged and sat up, gun in hand—and saw Bigjaws, on the other side of the room, quivering with anticipation, drooling copiously, its crocodilian jaws parting, its tongue licking out . . .
Daphne aimed and fired a burst, saw a couple of the teeth in the big sharp rows vanish. The creature squealed and gnashed its jaws—only to squeal again in pain. She fired again, aiming at its throat. The bullets pocked into it—but didn’t seem to penetrate far. It jerked its head back a bit with the impact but didn’t fall.
She couldn’t think of the creature as a he, though she could see from the dangle of its testicles, one of them hanging under its loincloth, that it was male. But Bigjaws, now, was an it.
And it was charging toward her.
She fired the rest of the clip, only slowing it down a little, and then rolled hard to the right, and off the bed, coming down on her feet. And sucking in her breath between clenched teeth as the pain hit her. The wound in her upper right leg seemed to writhe like a red-hot snake.
She was dizzy with the pain, and felt a wave of numbness sweep through her head, threatening to carry her into unconsciousness.
Then she heard Bigjaws roar—and heard him clomping toward her. That brought her around.
She drew another breath, got her balance, and saw her chair had fallen, nearby, on its side in front of the chute . . .
The chute. That was crucial to Plan B. She forced herself forward, her hands popping out the used-up clip, tearing the ammo clip loose from the tape, popping the new one in. She heard Bigjaws roar as it tossed the mattress out of the way. She used the moment to pick up the chair and, grimacing with pain, she carried it to the chute, set it up—and felt a hot, rancid breath on the back of her neck.
She turned and fired the weapon, point blank, one long burst into its open mouth, using up half a clip, angling the gun up to try to penetrate up to its brain . . .
It shrieked in fury and pain and blood gushed, to mix with drool, becoming orange foam bubbling over its jaws and it struck her left shoulder with its clawed right hand, knocking her back over the chair. She grunted in pain as she fell, the agony in her leg lancing up to stab at her heart, her shoulder feeling like it might be cracked. She looked up to see Bigjaws looming over her, its blood dripping onto her, the mutant hissing and burbling as it bent over, turning its head and opening its maw wide for her. Those bullets hadn’t hit its small brain—and her instinct was to fire up under its blood-crusted loincloth, where one of its fist-sized testicles spilled out onto its powerful thigh . . . She squeezed off a short burst . . .
Bigjaws arched its back and keened, a high, piercing sound that was the sonic approximation of its pain. She turned, got her feet under her, fighting her own pain and dizziness, dragged the chair up under the meat delivery chute with one hand. She stuck the gun in her jacket, clambered onto the chair, using seams between the metal sheets of the chute for finger grips. Gritting her teeth as the agony welled afresh in her wound, along with a gush of blood, and—using pure, refined, unmitigated will to live—she forced herself to climb up into the chute, fast as she could.
She felt blood and spit drip onto the back of her legs and a cold, angry grip on her left ankle as Bigjaws tried to pull her down. She felt a flange of metal up above, grabbed it and held on tightly, then kicked hard, downward, past the mutant’s grip—slamming her toe into its mangled groin.
The sound it made was almost too high-pitched to hear.
The grip loosened and she jerked her leg free and pulled herself up, almost dislocating her shoulder in the effort, wriggling, using her elbows for
more purchase, pulling her knees up as best she could. She climbed and came to the top of the chute.
Fresh blood was streaming from her wound, making the metal chute slippery, threatening to make her lose her foothold—the small shaft reverberated with the roars of the pain-maddened mutant. She could hear its claws scratching the metal just below her feet. If she slipped, she’d go right into its arms—and then its mouth.
She grunted, struggling with a sudden impulse to vomit. Got to get out of this . . .
It was dark up here—she couldn’t tell how close she was to the top . . . she managed to brace herself with her elbows and knees well enough to reach forward . . .
She felt the top of the chute. She pressed against the door. It didn’t budge. She pressed harder—and almost slipped. Almost fell down the chute to Bigjaws.
Then, between two anguished roars from the monster, she thought she heard—voices.
Someone on the other side . . .
She rapped on the metal trapdoor at the top of the chute, deliberately making it like knocking politely to be admitted.
“What the hell is that?” someone yelled.
“Haw, it’s ol’ Bigjaws, askin’ to come out for a drink!”
“Better take a look!”
The trapdoor opened and bleary, bearded men—clearly drunk—stared down at her, gaping when they saw her looking back up at them. One of them was just lowering a bottle from his lips.
She darted her left hand forward, gripped the edge of the doorway, the other pulling the gun from her jacket—and fired, almost in the same motion.
Neither man had a shield on. Bullet holes pocked their faces, and both men went over backward, the bottle smashing. She tossed the empty gun out ahead of her, started to slip back down the chute—and grabbed the edges with her other hand. She hissed with pain, but now she had a burst of energy from being close to getting out of the chute. She gritted her teeth and did a pull-up, elbowed onto the edge of the open trapdoor, then lifted herself partway out. It was awkward but in moments she was lying on the floor, wheezing, her head spinning. She’d lost too much blood.
She got to her knees, every movement triggering fresh pain in her wound, and then got unsteadily to her feet. She was feeling weak, but she made herself take the bodies of the two men and shove them headfirst, one and then the other, down the chute. It would give Bigjaws something to chew on. Maybe once the creature had done enough damage to the corpse, it would fool Jasper when he checked on his monstrous pet.
She looked around the room, trying to stay alert, afraid she might lose consciousness. It was a small utility room, with a couple of bloodstained tables to one side, two chairs, some broken glass on the floor, and little else. Except—a gun rack.
“Ah, bless their little hearts . . .” She limped to the gun rack. There were two big auto shotguns—both of them were Jakobs Strikers. They were combat shotguns, in good shape. Semi-automatic. Five shot magazines. Each was loaded and there was a bandolier of shells looped over one of them.
Daphne took the Striker with the bandolier, slung it over one shoulder on its strap, put the bandolier over her head, and hung the ammo belt on her neck so it angled between her breasts. Then she took the strap off the other Striker and, once more gritting her teeth, tied it as a quick and dirty tourniquet on the upper left of her leg, just above the wound. When she tightened it, the wound smarted viciously.
Searching the room again yielded only disappointment. She found no other weapons, and no med hypos. That’s what she needed most urgently—Zed to heal up her leg. Well, she wasn’t going to find it in here, and pretty soon someone would realize that wasn’t her being gnawed to pieces by Bigjaws.
She needed to get out of here, fast.
Daphne opened the door and slipped quietly into the hallway.
Now—if she could keep from fainting from blood loss . . . she might just survive. For a while.
Breathing hard, she took the shotgun in her hands—it hurt, pulling it off her shoulder. If it wasn’t cracked, it was sprained. The joint seemed stiff, might freeze up on her.
She made sure the shotgun was ready to fire and started off down the hall, at random, having no idea how to get out of the stronghold. She came to a door, tried it—and it opened. Beyond was a small barracks room, probably for the guards on this floor. Close on her left a man was standing at a locker, pulling a shirt over his head. He never did get it entirely off—she stepped up beside him and smashed the side of his head, through the shirt, hard as she could, using more skill than strength. He went to his knees, trying to call out, the shirt stuck over his head. Blood was seeping through the cloth. She hit him again and this time he slumped, out cold, or maybe dead. She shoved him out of the way and found one full med hypo injector inside the locker.
“Whew, come here, you beauty,” she murmured.
She gave herself the meds—and leaned against the lockers as strength, clarity, and life swelled in her. The pain ebbed. She took a deep breath and then removed the tourniquet, tossing it aside. The wound was healing as she watched.
She looked around, thinking there had to be more in here of use. There—a small box of grenades, under a bunk. She bent down, relieved to find the motion didn’t hurt, and pulled out the box. Three frag grenades. She scooped the grenades up, shoved them into her pants pockets, then straightened and tried the other lockers. Only two of them were unlocked. She found some packaged food, one knife, odds and ends of junk, and nothing else of use.
There were urgent male voices coming from the hallway—probably someone looking for her, by now. And she’d left the door open. She hadn’t moved that body out of sight, either.
She’d hoped to keep herself undercover. But now . . .
Now two of Jasper’s men were stepping through the door. She ran up to them, as they gawped down at the body she’d left, and shoved the shotgun in close, squeezing the trigger, twice, popping the muzzle from one startled face to another.
Both men went down. But the shotgun’s boom reverberated through the room and down the hall. So much for stealth.
Reamus House was designed, in outline, to resemble an ancient homeworld mansion, almost Gothic with its turrets and gables, its spiky eaves and decadently intricate ornamentation. But the manse resembled no homeworld house in the materials of its construction: it was made of one, gigantic, five-story-high solid piece of stainless steel. Walls and roof, decorations and towers, everything but the bulletproof window glass was stainless steel. A series of force-field shields glimmered with purple energies around its peaked roof.
“Well, we’re here,” Mordecai muttered as they pulled up in the technical. “Right in the den of the beast.”
Bloodwing, crouched between them, made a doubtful errreee sound in its throat.
“Yeah, I know, Bloodwing . . .”
“Thought you were worried about Gynella’s old recruits coming after us,” Brick said, watching sentries rush up to the truck. “Change your mind?”
“No. We’re past that bunch now—for the moment. We’re about to be taken inside, seems to me. So maybe we can play the game for a while . . .”
Someone knocked on the window and pointed an enormous Eridian blunderbuss at him. Mordecai smiled, nodded at the sentry, and opened the truck’s door. He got out.
“Good to be home,” he said.
The sentry, a man with dull, droopy eyes and equally droopy mouth, looked doubtfully at him. “If you were any more full of crap, your goggles would steam up,” he said. “Come on. No weapons. They want to see you inside.”
Then Bloodwing leapt out, on his shoulder.
“Shit, what’s that thing?” the sentry yelled, stepping back to aim the gun at Bloodwing.
“Don’t shoot! It’s just my pet!”
“Your pet doesn’t have permission to come in! That thing looks dangerous.”
“Okay, fine. Bloodwing. Off you go. You’re free to fly around and eat something dead till I, uh . . . get in touch.”
Bloodwi
ng looked at him, head cocked. He winked at her. She winked back and leapt into the air, flapping into the sky.
Disarmed and without shields, Mordecai and Brick were escorted at gunpoint out of the technical and across the street to the great steel building. Like some horrid, bloated variant on stone lions, two SlagSlugs reared, gurgling, to either side of the doorway into Reamus House. Their moronic faces shuddering with bloodlust, they hissed and wriggled as Brick and Mordecai approached.
“Those big worm people are ugly,” Brick remarked, unnecessarily, looking with puzzlement at the hideous wormlike mutants.
“Yeah and mentally challenged, too,” Mordecai said. “Which is good. If they were smarter, they’d be even more dangerous. They can spit acid or glue. Don’t get too close.”
Mordecai had given up pretending they belonged here. It would soon be violently apparent that they didn’t.
They strode boldly between the slugs and through the open doors. Inside, two burly Reamers awaited in the big, high-ceilinged stainless-steel entryway, the black-clad soldiers aiming powerful Eridian rifles at them. The Reamers wore jet-black skag leather fighting suits, with lots of pockets and zippers, and the sign of Reamus on their shoulders: an R within a halo of outward-pointing spears. The same symbol hung from a banner, red and black, above the big steel hallway behind them. To the right glowed a four-meter-high digital image of Reamus—gigantic, four-armed, insanely muscular, face both brutal and wickedly intelligent.
“Don’t do anything but walk, and keep your arms close to your sides,” said the Reamer on the right.
“Be kind of awkward to walk that way,” said Mordecai mildly. “But anything to please.”
“Come on, this way. Stay between us.”
Mordecai heard Brick growl to himself. It had taken some convincing to get Brick to agree to this passive entry into the den of the enemy. Mordecai was afraid the big guy was going to lose control and start smashing things, and people. And in here it just might get them both killed. “Take it easy, big buddy,” Mordecai muttered, as they walked down the hallway with the Reamers. “Timing, it’s all timing . . .”
