by John Shirley
“My timing is, it’s time to bust some heads.”
“What was that?” asked a man stepping up to block their way at the end of the big entryway. “Something about busting heads? What a colorful expression, so pungently old-fashioned . . .” The stranger was pasty-faced, his cheeks almost doughy, with red stained lips, tattooed eyeliner, and a high, florid three-tone hairstyle, red, yellow, and blue like his clothing; very off-world, Mordecai thought. The man wore a silken variant of Reamus’s fighting livery, but in red and yellow, with high red boots. A powerful Pangolin shield projected from the unit on his chest cast a translucent sheath of blue energy around him. The guards had stopped, clearly respecting the man’s authority, despite his innocuous appearance. “Whose heads will you bust?”
“Brick here just likes to break things, including heads,” Mordecai said, chuckling. “Take no notice. It’s a kind of hobby he has. Hasn’t had a chance for any recreation in a while. Getting bored. We want to be of service to Reamus—busting heads.”
“And breaking arms,” Brick added, thoughtfully.
“My name is Fluron,” said the stranger. “I’m Reamus’s consort and secretary. Also his security chief. Do not speak of breaking arms in his presence. He has four of them and he doesn’t like that kind of talk. So this one is the fabled Brick. And you?”
“The fabled Mordecai.”
“I haven’t heard that fable. Well, come along, then.” Fluron glanced at the Reamers. “You boys bring up the rear, and keep a close eye on them, guns at ready.”
“Yes sir,” the men snapped, almost simultaneously.
Mordecai wondered how this Fluron could command these great thuggish Reamers. Then again, Mordecai himself didn’t appear dangerous, to a good many people . . . And they found out differently.
They walked through several shining metal-walled rooms, where even the furniture appeared to be stainless steel fused with the floor. The only decorations, apart from ornate steel frames around the tall, narrow windows, were flickering digital images, showing Reamus in various stages—from his original body to his mutated four-armed form. The air was chilly; their footsteps echoed metallically as they trod through room after room. At last they came to a heavily bolted black-metal door, embossed with the spear-haloed Reamus R.
“Personal identity: Fluron,” the man muttered, at the door. A computer analyzed his voice and opened the door; it was bank-vault thick yet it swung back whisper-silent.
And within, standing at a holographic projection table, under digital banners, his four huge arms bare, massive bare chest crisscrossed with red leather, and about three meters tall, immense bald head crested with crystalline spines, towering over all the others in the room . . .
Reamus.
He’d once been a man. Now he was a gigantic Eridium mutant, hugely altered through genetic modification, with a craggy, grim face like a statue’s after being worn down by the weather for several hundred years. He turned his emotionless eyes on them as they were led into the room.
On the hologram table was a reticulating image of the town of New Haven—where Mordecai had friends. Was Reamus planning an attack against New Haven? The image was a three-dimensional projection, like the one Jasper had shown him of Tumessa, but larger, more detailed, like a model of the town on a table. But one that would vanish at the touch of a button.
“Here are the imposters, Reamus,” said Fluron.
Reamus nodded and turned to stare balefully at Brick. “This one,” Reamus said, his voice like an avalanche, “is dangerous. But—I’m too busy to kill anyone now.”
Brick growled again. Louder than the last time.
Mordecai almost poked Brick in the ribs with his elbow—but that might’ve gotten him killed. By Brick.
“We are keeping a close eye on them both, Reamus,” Fluron said. “So—kill them now or later?”
Brick growled even louder.
Mordecai said, “Spare us. Give us a job. And I’ll give you some vital information.”
Reamus turned to him. His four arms rose, the four hands clenched into fists. “Do you imagine you could ever keep information back from me?”
“I expect you could torture it out of me,” Mordecai conceded, smiling faintly.
“I’d do that myself,” Fluron interposed. “With pleasure.”
“But,” Mordecai went on, “you’ll lose some good employees. And waste time. Jasper will be there soon.”
“ ‘Good employees?’ ” Reamus made a low animal barking sound that was his version of laughter. “You stole one of our trucks—you could have been with the bunch who . . .” He broke off, stepping closer to loom over him, frowning down. “Did you say Jasper?” A frown on Reamus’s face reshaped his features gruesomely, turned his countenance into a gargoyle’s mask.
Mordecai was a bit taken aback. He pretended to clear his throat, so he could get a moment to recover. “I—yes, I said Jasper. Boss Jasper himself is going to be in Corpse Crevice tomorrow morning, with a small army! In it—or close to it.”
“What’s he doing at Corpse Crevice?”
Mordecai shrugged. “Don’t know every detail. But from what I gleaned, it’s a forward encampment. He’s preparing a sneak attack on you. He’ll have a whole big flock of Buzzards down there, they’ll take off first and attack Tumessa, keep you focused on them. They’ll mostly get knocked down but not before they weaken your defenses. And all the time he’s sending out divisions to take you down from the ground.”
“Why should you know all this?”
“I was in the room when the plans were made. I was just doing some sentry duty but I got an earful.”
“You could’ve been sent by Jasper to spread disinformation, too . . .”
“Perhaps I might send up a drone,” Fluron said. “We could see if there’s any movement from Gunsight toward Corpse Crevice. Maybe confirm the story?”
“Do it,” Reamus said, pointing at Fluron with all four of his hands. “Do it now!”
Fluron nodded, gave a rather showy salute, and strode off.
Reamus looked at Mordecai. “Now as to killing you now or later . . .” He paused, thinking it over. “Now—or later. I think—”
Mordecai quickly put in, “If the drone confirms my story, that would confirm that I’ve changed sides. Sure, we were with Jasper. But he’s a loser—and you’re not! We want to work for you. I wanted to show you I’m valuable. You can set up an ambush and get rid of your biggest enemy. All I want in return is a good job for me and my partner here—something high in the organization. I could be captain of the Reamus House guard maybe. You should make Brick here one of your top commanders—he’s deadly on the battlefield . . .”
“Hmm. Jasper sends out sorties all the time,” rumbled the big mutant. “You’re definitely saying he’s going to be there, in person?”
“Yeah! Jasper’s easy to spot—a big, round, goofy-looking bastard. Your spotters won’t miss him. He’ll be there.”
Or so Mordecai hoped. With a little luck, Jasper would be there—if he’d taken the bait.
Through Commander Ripper, Mordecai had told Jasper the same thing, but in reverse: That Reamus would be in Corpse Crevice, or close by, to try to set up a surprise attack on Gunsight. And of course he’d told Jasper that Reamus would be there in person. And by the way, what an ideal situation for an ambush . . .
As far as Mordecai was concerned, both Reamus and Jasper were enemies. They both had to go down. Be nice if they could take each other down for him.
Reamus grunted thoughtfully and put his four hands together—he made “tents” of the fingers of the two upper hands; the lower ones clasped, and seemed to be doing some kind of dynamic-tension exercise. The mutant’s pectorals and biceps bulged, veins throbbing with life.
Anything with veins on it can bleed out and die, big mutant.
Mordecai glanced at Brick, sensing growing restlessness. Brick was shifting his weight from foot to foot, hands balled into fists, lowering his head in that bull-on-
the-attack way he had.
Brick despised subterfuge. He’d only agreed to this because Mordecai had said it would get him in close where he could pit himself against Reamus personally. Brick’s way of thinking was, he either took a real job working for the guy—or he took him on. Having seen Reamus, Brick wanted to match himself against the fabled four-armed giant.
But just then Reamus turned to them and grimaced with his lipless mouth in his approximation of a smile. “If it turns out that Jasper is where you say he is, why, I shall be very pleased. Meanwhile—you two can stay in our guest suite.” He turned to their escort and pointed with two of his hands. One hand pointed to one sentry, the other to the other sentry. The lower two hands cracked their knuckles. “You two, take them to the back bedroom. Make sure they’re very, very comfortable. And do it now.”
“This way, gents,” said one of the sentries gruffly, lowering his weapon.
Mordecai looked at Brick—who shrugged back at him.
The sentries had lowered their weapons so all must be well. They were in with Reamus.
Mordecai and Brick followed the two men through the opposite door, down a hall, and into a big freight-size elevator. The sentries chatted about what was on the menu in the commissary that night. Then they reached the seventh floor, got out, and the head sentry unlocked a door, and gestured the two men into it. Mordecai and Brick stepped in—and stopped cold. They were on a ledge, out in the open, and down below them was a giant monster with six limbs.
Mordecai turned and went for the door—but it was shut, locked, and unbreakable.
“Not much of a guest suite,” Brick said, looking at the half-meter-wide steel ledge.
“I thought those two bastards were smirking, in the elevator,” Mordecai said, turning back to the ledge. “I should’ve known when he said ‘make sure they’re very, very comfortable.’ That’s always a dead giveaway.”
He looked down—and the Bullymong looked up at him.
It was a hideous creature with four gigantic arms, two comparatively small legs, an enormous chest. It looked top-heavy to Mordecai. Hard to imagine how those small legs held it up. Partly it was the fact that two of its long, thick arms were almost right behind the other two and could extend back enough so the creature kept its balance on its relatively small feet. The Bullymong was mostly the color of the stainless steel that made up the building—and the ledge they stood on.
“The thing is color coordinated with the house,” Mordecai said dryly. “What a lovely idea. Probably Fluron’s.”
The creature was enclosed in a sort of giant birdcage—a homeworld alloy stronger than steel that fitted up against the rear of the house. Human bones littered the floor of the cage, along with its droppings.
Mordecai thought of Daphne and Bigjaws and hoped he could get back to her in time before she ended up like those bones and droppings in a different kind of cage.
“The Bullymong is climbing up here,” Brick said, as if only moderately interested. He yawned.
“I’m sorry about this, Brick,” Mordecai said.
Brick shrugged. “At least it’s something to fight.”
“I think we can count on that . . .”
As the creature climbed, Mordecai got a better look at it. Its pointed, spike-crested head was much smaller than its gigantic fists—it had four fingered hands, the fingers blunt, each one thick as Mordecai’s forearm. It looked like it could crush a boulder with those hands. A man’s head would implode fast as a bird’s egg in a vise, in that grip. The backs of its hands and arms were festooned with crystals that seemed to grow from metallic rocks. It climbed rungs set almost at random in the wall, and came eagerly toward them.
Mordecai looked around for a route of escape, but of course there wasn’t one. There was no way off the ledge but down—seven stories down. No room for a man to slip out between the bars of the cage if he did get down intact. Up above, there was only smooth steel wall. No handholds.
And both Mordecai and Brick were unarmed.
The Bullymong was only about four meters below them. It stopped and licked its pointed jaws, as it gazed up at them with enigmatic gemlike eyes.
Brick rubbed his hands together. “This could be a good fight!”
“Yeah, I hate to be a buzzkill, there, Brick,” Mordecai said. “And we both know you’re the baddest badass on the planet. But you’re human. And you’re unarmed. That thing isn’t human, it has four arms, and any one of them is big enough and armored enough to break your back. And by the way, the damned thing is way bigger than you. So maybe strategy might be in order. Like, for example, uh . . .”
“Yes?”
“I don’t know, but—strategy.”
“Anyhow—I’m not unarmed.”
Mordecai looked at Brick with a sudden flare of hope. “Really? You smuggled something in? What, a grenade?”
“No. I mean, I’ve got arms and fists and teeth.”
“Brick—”
Then the Bullymong was upon them.
The gigantic hand grabbed the edge of the steel ledge; another clapped on beside it. Then another, a little farther down . . . and Brick picked Mordecai up, and put him down, behind his back.
The Bullymong was suddenly there, on the ledge, using a split second to get its balance—
In that split second, Brick leapt at it, high and hard. The off-balance Bullymong gave out a strangely pathetic screeee sound of dismay and keeled over backward, falling, Brick’s impact and momentum keeping it from restoring its grip. There was a grunt of pain and a loud roar as the beast struck the ground on its back.
“Huh,” Mordecai said, looking down from the ledge. “Strategy.”
He was in time to see Brick standing on the Bullymong’s chest, hammering at its head—and he was also in time to see the Bullymong swipe Brick away with two of its fists, both coming from its left side, hammering him hard right back so he spun away, rolling across the bone-strewn steel floor, roaring himself.
“Skagzilla’s Arse,” Mordecai swore. He tried to think of some way to help. He came up empty.
Then the Bullymong was up—and so was Brick, wiping blood away from his mouth.
“Hey, mutant freak!” Mordecai bellowed. “Hey! Ugly! You!”
“Me?” Brick said, surprised.
“No, not you—Hey, Bullymong, you big ugly piece of . . . uh-oh.” He’d wanted the Bullymong to turn toward him, and it had. It seemed about to leap up the rungs to get at him.
Then—as Mordecai had hoped—Brick used the Bullymong’s distraction and leapt on its back, clasping it between two sets of legs, tightening his arm around its throat. He began to squeeze . . .
The Bullymong shrieked and struck at Brick but was only able to hit him obliquely. It reached back, and tried to pry him off. Brick gritted his teeth, grimaced, straining to keep his hold. But it didn’t look like he was going to keep it long. And even if he did—eventually the Bullymong, despite its evidently small brain, would realize it could back up and slam him against the steel wall of Reamus House.
That’s when Brick’s face went white, rigid, his eyes seeming to light with an inner fire—the berserker rage was upon him. He howled and redoubled his attack on the creature.
A familiar squawk sounded, up above, and Mordecai looked up to see Bloodwing perched on the metal of the cage, directly above the Bullymong and Brick.
“You found me!” Mordecai blurted.
She had ducked her head, was wriggling in a way he’d never seen before—and then she had pushed between the bars, was dropping like a hawk after a mouse.
Some mouse. The Bullymong saw her coming and slashed at her with one of its enormous four-fingered paws. It struck her—and seeing that, Mordecai’s heart leapt into his throat.
His pet spun through the air and impacted on the inside of the cage—then dropped to the floor.
“No!” Mordecai yelled. “Bloodwing!”
She sat up, shook her head, then leapt into the air and flapped upward again. He looked at her
closely—her flight path seemed normal. No obvious broken bones, anyway.
“Bloodwing! Be careful!”
She’d learned that lesson and as Brick tried to tighten his hold on the Bullymong, she swooped toward it in a curvy pattern that made her hard to hit. The giant mutant swiped at her again, missed, and this time she came at its eyes claws first. The Bullymong snapped at her with its serrated jaws, missed—and then screeched as she slashed at one of his eyes. She’d drawn blood.
Mordecai shouted, “Bloodwing—up here! Come to me!” Then he made a gesture she was trained to recognize.
He had an idea . . .
Bloodwing heard him, saw the hand-sign, and did as he asked, coming toward him but in teasing, swooping loops, some of them taking her close to the Bullymong, but never close enough.
Enraged, partly blinded, it pursued her. And with Brick still clinging, squeezing—it began climbing the rungs to the ledge. One of its hands was still trying to pry Brick off.
Suddenly it was there, at the other end of the ledge, jumping up. And almost falling off because Brick was making it lean off center. But it got its footing and came hulkingly toward Mordecai and Bloodwing—who was now settling on Mordecai’s shoulder.
“Good girl. Sorry you got hurt,” he muttered. He backed toward the sealed door and flattened against it.
“Come on, you great half-blind ugly Bullymong!” he shouted.
The Bullymong charged—and he ducked under its legs, diving between them, scrambling to keep from falling off the ledge, as Bloodwing flew dartingly to one side, and the maddened Bullymong slammed into the door with all four fists . . .
The door crashed inward, smashed off its hinges.
Moredecai got up and turned to see Brick riding the Bullymong into the building. The frame of the door was smashing apart, the creature and Brick both bellowing at once. Dust and steel shards flew . . .
