by Jaspre Bark
He felt Johnny's hand closing around his own and didn't resist as he was hauled to his feet. The fiery-eyed mutant's voice was surprisingly gentle, almost friendly. "We're obliged to you for the information, Mr Hine. Now, I suggest you go back to your work and say nothing about this meeting to anybody. And if I were you, I'd stay out of the Chameleons' way for a few days."
Cain felt sick. All he could do was watch through welling tears, trembling with helpless loathing, as Middenface and Johnny strutted away. He could well imagine how Slug would react when he heard about this, and he winced at the thought. Perhaps Johnny was right; maybe it was best to keep his head down, to say nothing, not even to warn Slug that the Stronties were on their way. But that would make him no better than them. It would make him a traitor.
The sound of a man clearing his throat jerked Cain out of his haze of self-pity. He looked up with a start to see that he was no longer alone.
It was the norms from the saloon around the corner; the ones he had seen watching the Stronties. A dozen or more of them. They had closed in, without a word, to surround him. He had been peripherally aware of their approach, but he had thought nothing of it, expecting them to pass him by as they normally would. Cain squirmed for the second time in as many minutes from the unfamiliar and unwanted sensation of eyes upon him.
"Thought it was your job to clean up the trash, kid, not kiss up to it."
"We don't like muties that don't know their place, y'hear?"
"Fixing to join up with those Strontium scum, kid? Cuz you's already a dog!"
The gang gave a hard and brutal laugh, and they were tightening their circle around Cain, raising their fists. He cowered from them, covering his head with his hands and letting out a plaintive whimper.
Then he heard footsteps, the crackle of electricity and an angry demand in a familiar gruff voice. "Whit did ye just say tae ma friend?"
Middenface and Johnny had returned. They tore into the lynch mob like twin hurricanes, scattering them this way and that. Their electro-nux - the charged brass knuckles that each of the S/D agents wore - flared and shot off blue sparks whenever they impacted with flesh and bone.
The fight was fast-paced and brutal and, caught in the middle, Cain didn't know which side to root for. Before he could make up his mind, Middenface had the gang's apparent leader - the one who had spoken first - pinned to the ground with a gun pointed at his face. It was a Westinghouse blaster. Cain recognised it from the tattered catalogue he had once kept hidden under his old blanket. The weapon was a powerful and adaptable handgun that fired small, variable-function cartridges. Middenface was jamming its barrel into the tender flesh underneath his victim's chin, and the loudmouth was sweating copiously.
"Hey, mister," he stammered. "We was just having a little fun with the kid, that's all. We didn't mean nothing by it."
"Well, the next time ye speak tae him, ye call him 'Mr Hine, sir', ye ken?"
A nervous tic pulled at the corner of the man's eye. "Sure, sure. 'Mr Hine, sir.' Anything you say."
Middenface stood, holstered his weapon and sauntered back over to Cain and Johnny, turning his back on his foe with the sort of easy confidence that came from knowing there was no threat from him. The mob exchanged panicked glances before picking themselves off the ground and scattered.
Cain would have run, too, had his legs not been frozen. His mind was whirling; his throat dry. He couldn't believe the Stronties had come to his aid like that, putting themselves out for him even after he'd admitted trying to snitch on them. Nobody had ever shown him such kindness. There had to be a catch, something else they wanted from him. Something that would hurt, again.
"Hey," said Middenface, throwing him a quick wink as if he had read his thoughts. "Nae problem. Us dogs gotta stick taegether, right? Maybe we'll see you roun' the Doghouse sometime. Ye can get us a roun' in, then."
Then Middenface and Johnny were gone again, leaving Cain's life as suddenly as they had entered it, with just a final snatch of conversation finding its way back to him on the hot, dry air.
"Looks like we mightn't have to spend the night here after all," said Johnny. "Saves us the price of a luxury suite, anyway."
It was only later that Cain realised what his brief encounter with the S/D agents had cost him. Only later, when he had found his broom and resumed his street sweeping duties, did he realise that wherever he went and whatever he did, it was against a background of pointing fingers and whispered suspicions. He began to think that it would have been better if Middenface and Johnny had left him alone with the mob, because at least the bruises they would have left would have faded. Not like this. This would change Cain Hine's life forever.
Everybody was looking at him.
CHAPTER TWO
GANG BANG
"Now this is more ma kindae place," said Middenface.
The mutant township was a vast, sprawling shantytown. Its buildings, hastily erected from whatever materials could be scavenged and recycled, were clustered together to form an almost impenetrable maze of streets and alleyways. The whole place smelled of cheap liquor and exotic spices, but there was a vibrancy to it that the rest of Bogweed lacked.
Johnny and Middenface hadn't been searching long when the doors of a tumble-down bar flew open and a mutant hit the ground in front of them. He was writhing in agony, clutching at his third hand that grew from the top of his head. Another broad-shouldered mutant with a huge swollen head stood in the doorway behind him, and tossed a handful of bloody fingers in his direction.
"Next time you try and short-change the Blades, you won't get off so lightly," he growled. His victim gathered up his fingers and scampered off, whimpering to himself.
"Now there's a spot of luck," said Johnny, as they followed the swell-headed mutant back into the building.
The dim interior of the bar was a stark contrast to the bright sunshine outside. Even Johnny needed a moment to adjust to the oppressive gloom. There were about twenty mutants in the place: half of them gathered around the makeshift bar, and the rest sitting around packing crates. The swell-headed mutant marched past them and disappeared into another room at the back. The doorway was hidden by a curtain of animal hide, but it was no barrier to Johnny's Alpha eyes.
Unlike many mutants - Middenface included - Johnny's mutation was more than just cosmetic. His fierce red eyes emitted alpha rays that could see through solid objects and even pierce a man's soul. He had even named himself for their unique properties, after he had renounced his father and his birth name.
"Six muties in the back room," he reported to Middenface under his breath. "All of them packing." Middenface nodded.
None of the mutants around them dared to catch their eyes as they strode up to the curtain and pushed it aside. The room beyond was a lot more luxurious than the bar. There was proper furniture for a start, and carpet on the floor. Its six occupants were lounging around a table playing cards.
Swellhead spoke without looking up from his hand. "This is a private room, buddy. If you know what's good for you, you'll step back outside."
"And if you know what's good for you," said Johnny, "you'll listen to what we have to say." That got the attention of the whole gang. Six heads turned to give Johnny and Middenface the once-over.
"You Stronties ain't welcome back here," said another mutant with a giant rhinoceros horn growing out of his forehead.
"We're not here to collect any bounties," said Johnny. "We wouldn't waste our time with the chicken feed prices you've got on your heads. We're here to give you a warning that might just save your lives."
"Give us your weapons, then maybe we'll listen," said Swellhead.
"Ye'll have tae take them from us first," said Middenface, "and ah dinnae fancy yer chances." He placed his hand on the butt of his Westinghouse before any of the Blades could reach for their weapons.
"We're after the Chameleons and we hear they're not good friends of yours," said Johnny. "We also hear they're planning a surprise attack on you boys.
We aim to save your hides as long as you stay out of our way and allow us to interrogate the surviving Chameleons when we're done."
"We don't need your help to take on the Chameleons," said Hornhead. "If they want to start something, we can finish it all by ourselves. You and your friend there would do best to stay out of our way."
The hide curtain over the door swished to one side, breaking the tension and drawing everyone's gaze. A barmaid stepped into the room carrying a bottle of Mac Mac and six shot glasses on a tray. She had giant front teeth like a bunny and an hourglass figure that kept everyone's attention. "Compliments of the house, boys," the barmaid said, laying the bottle down on the card table.
"Now this is what I call service," said Swellhead, patting the barmaid's behind as she bent over to pour each of the Blades a drink.
"You must be new here," said Hornhead. "Don't think I've seen you before."
"I don't imagine you'll see me again, either," said the barmaid over her shoulder. She reached inside her blouse and pulled out a small, metallic device. She pushed a button on its side, tossed it into the centre of the card table and bolted from the room.
Johnny recognised the device instantly. "Time snare!" he shouted. "Middenface, get back." He launched himself at his partner.
The snare was already emanating visible waves of energy. They rippled outwards to create a field of around three metres in diameter. As Johnny hit Middenface, the field overtook them both and they felt time slowing to a fraction of its normal pace. They were still moving, carried by the momentum of Johnny's leap, but each centimetre gained seemed to take an eternity.
By some quirk of the snare's operation, Johnny's mind was free to race at its normal speed, which only increased the torment of his situation. He was turning his head, trying to see what was going on behind him, but it was as if his muscles weren't responding, the movement was so slow, and he knew that in the meantime he and Middenface were sitting ducks.
Then they popped out of the energy field like corks, hit the back wall of the room and fell in a heap in one corner.
Simultaneously, the wall that separated the back room from the main bar was vaporised. One second it was there, the next, there was just a smoking hole through which five and a half members of the Chameleons made their entrance.
Johnny rolled to his feet and drew his blaster, but he and Middenface were trapped in their corner. If they shifted forward even a centimetre, they'd be caught in the time snare's field again.
They recognised Slug, the leader of the Chameleons, from Cain Hine's description. Slime ran in thick rivulets from every part of his leathery, grey hide. His clothes soaked up much of it, but the rest just pooled around his feet. His semi-automatic blaster was wrapped in industrial-strength plastic film to protect it from corrosion.
Slug fired off an opening salvo and the rest of the gang whooped and followed his lead. Their bullets and energy beams slowed as they hit the time field, as if they had been plunged into treacle, but the Blades, too, were moving in slow motion, still reaching for their own weapons and wearing expressions of dumb shock. Moving at twenty times the speed of their targets, the Chameleons were able to let off burst after burst of fire, filling the air with a slow-moving minefield, which the Blades could see coming but couldn't avoid.
"Eight ball inna corner pocket," said Weasel, a short mutant with beady eyes and a long thin face that stretched outwards like a rodent's. He fired off a cartridge from a short hand cannon and watched as it spun lazily towards the horn-headed mutant.
"Twenty credits says I can get four beams right in the heart," said Willian One-and-a-Half, a towering two-headed mutant with three legs. All four of his eyes squinted as he took leisurely aim with the blasters in his right and left hands.
"Fish in a barrel. Just like you said, Slug, fish in a barrel," cackled Beanstalk, a tall, impossibly slender mutant whose arms, legs and body were only slightly thicker than broomsticks. He began whistling a cheerful tune and the others joined in, providing a soundtrack for the Blades' slow motion dances of death as the first bullets and beams finally tore into them.
Weasel's cartridge burrowed into Hornhead's face and then exploded. Only the mutant's horn remained intact, floating slowly up above the bloody mess that used to be his face. The four beams from Willian One-and-a-Half's blasters inched their way, one after the other, into the same hole in Swellhead's chest.
Johnny had lived with death as a close companion for many years, but even he was appalled by the callous glee with which the Chameleons dispatched their helpless victims. There was no time to fret about that now, though. Weasel had spotted the two S/D agents in their corner and he motioned to the other gang members. Instinctively, the Chameleons turned and fired, but the intervening field worked to Johnny and Middenface's advantage, slowing the oncoming projectiles.
"We have to get out of here, fast," said Johnny, "before they can pin us down."
Middenface was ahead of him, already drawing back his foot. He booted a hole in the wall behind them, large enough for them to crawl out. The Chameleons saw what they were doing and four of them turned and raced towards the front of the bar. Beanstalk, however, headed towards them, impossibly squeezing himself through the tiny space between the time field and the wall.
Johnny and Middenface emerged into a dark alleyway and flattened themselves against the wall to each side of their exit hole. A moment later, the pursuing bullets reached the edge of the time field and regained their normal velocity, shooting out between them like a brief but furious fireworks display.
The next thing to emerge from the hole was Beanstalk's head, which was greeted by Middenface's Electro-Nux. A few good punches were enough to stun the spindly Chameleon. Then, Johnny and Middenface combined their strength to haul him out into the open and hurl him into the edge of the time field, which extended through the back wall beside them.
"Now ye're the fish," said Middenface, firing a single shot into the field after Beanstalk, "and this is ma barrel."
Hanging spread-eagled in midair, Beanstalk could do nothing to avoid the bullet that was slowly, inexorably, zeroing in on him. When it did eventually burrow a tiny hole between his eyes and blow a much larger one out of the back of his head, he would feel every slowed-down moment of its progress.
The Chameleons had split up at the front of the bar, hoping to catch their foes in a pincer movement. Slug had taken Weasel and Freddy Flat Face around the right-hand side of the building with him, leaving Willian One-and-a-Half to take the left.
Willian reached the back of the building and swallowed with both throats at the sight of Beanstalk, still trapped in the time field, facing death. There was nothing he could do about that. He looked around but couldn't see anyone. Then, out of the corner of one eye, he saw movement. The glowing-eyed Strontie had just ducked out of sight between two buildings.
Willian grinned, twice over. "We're in luck," said his right head. "That's a dead end."
"Too narrow for us, though," said his left head. "Time to split, Will."
"Sure thing, Ian."
The two faces grimaced in pain as Willian One-and-a-Half began to tear himself down the middle. A split formed down his chest, then through his midriff and finally right down the centre of his sturdy middle leg. The leg became two separate spindly legs, each with three toes inside special padded boots that were held together with Velcro. Two one-armed mutants now faced each other, each slim enough to pursue their quarry. They exchanged malevolent grins and gave chase.
The Strontie was standing helplessly at the end of the blind alley when they reached him. He appeared to be unarmed, but was clutching something to his chest. Will and Ian flanked him, their blasters drawn.
"End of the line, Strontie," said Will.
"Four shots right through the heart, eh, Will?" said Ian.
"I was hoping you'd say that," said the Strontium Dog. He didn't seem to be afraid.
Will and Ian fired simultaneously. In the same split-second, their target rev
ealed what he was holding: a small, circular device, which they recognised with horror as a beam polariser. He threw it down the alleyway between them, and the beams from their blasters bent impossibly back on themselves to follow it. In so doing, they sliced right through the mutants who had fired them.
Will and Ian looked down at the charred lines running across their abdomens. Instinctively, they reached out for each other, trying to join up again, but the top halves of their bodies toppled off their legs. Then their legs gave way and crumpled.
The last thing they heard, before their mutant bodies realised they weren't suppose to divide this way, was their killer's muttered growl saying, "Three to go!"
Weasel edged forward, cursing under his breath, knowing that there were a hundred places around him where an enemy could be hiding and trying not to look too hard in any one of them. He knew his part in the routine they were playing - the one Slug always played - but he didn't like it. He said a silent prayer to whatever gods looked out for mutant criminals.
Then Weasel felt a sharp blow to the back of his neck that almost drove him to his knees. Before he could draw breath, an arm locked around his throat, squeezing so hard it almost broke his neck. Weasel jerked and kicked as his bulky, tartan-clad captor lifted him off the ground.
That was when Slug and Freddy finally chose to reveal themselves, shrugging off the flimsy chameleon cloaks they were wearing. The cloaks were fashioned from a rare material that gave off variable light, allowing whoever wore them to blend into any background and become virtually invisible. The decoy ploy had worked.
Slug trained his blaster at the back of the S/D agent's head. "All right, big man, drop the little runt," he commanded.
The Strontie flexed the muscles in one arm almost casually, and Weasel gasped as he felt his neck break in one clean snap.
"Oops," said the Strontie.
"You'll pay for that, Stront!" snarled Freddy Flat Face.
